


All That We Seem

by QuillaWynter



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Book/Movie Fusion, Canon Divergence, Character Death, F/M, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Ravenspeaking, Slow Romance, The Arkenstone is More than a Pretty Gem, family bonds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 164,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillaWynter/pseuds/QuillaWynter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**ON HIATUS - NOT ABANDONED** With their father dead in the goblin raid that scarred them, Trisk and Viska have no reason to stay in the Hills of Evendim, so they leap at the chance to join their father's old comrade in his quest to reclaim Erebor. But Thorin will never allow a lass to join the Company, so Viska's true identity will just have to remain a secret. Shouldn't be too difficult, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where to Start

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit or any of its characters – I am just borrowing them to indulge my own creativity for fun**  
> Author's Note: This is my first ever fan fiction, so please be patient with me! Iglishmêk (Dwarf sign language) was originally created by Tolkien, though I doubt he intended for it to be utilized quite so extensively – it was mostly about giving them a way to communicate across a noisy forge.

 Triskel, son of Kulvik, was feeling rather disgruntled. He was also tired, hungry, and uncomfortable. His sibling's fidgeting told him that Visk was feeling much the same, but the younger Dwarf did not complain. Instead, round green eyes were fixed on the round green door of the Hobbit hole that they were currently watching. Trisk was confident that they had found the right place – the glowing rune on the door was impossible to mistake – but he also knew that they were early, and that his companion would prefer to enter in relative anonymity. So, they waited, crouched out of sight, as a large bald Dwarf made his way up the hill and knocked boldly on the door. Trisk's eyes widened as a genteel-looking Hobbit in a bathrobe opened the door and the Dwarf gave a solemn bow, introducing himself in a rumbling voice.

“Dwalin,” Trisk murmured to Visk. “He was at the battle for Khazâd-dûm. _Adad_ said Fundin's sons were great warriors.”

Visk nodded silently, adjusting the soft scarf that concealed healing scars, then settled back into place. Trisk sighed and reached back to rest a hand on his sibling's shoulder and give a reassuring squeeze.

“This is what Da would have wanted, Visk,” he repeated for the hundredth time. “You know he often spoke of wanting to go when the Line of Durin returned to Erebor. He can't, so we shall in his place. Thorin will let us go. He has to.” He realized that he had clenched his free hand unconsciously and made an effort to relax it as Visk raised an eyebrow and signed briefly. The young craftsman smiled and tugged at the other's hood, pulled forward to conceal chestnut hair that was still growing back. How he missed tugging on the younger Dwarf's sturdy braids in mischief! “You too, Visk. I won't leave you behind. Thorin will understand that, I'm sure.”

Visk nodded absently, then tapped his arm and directed his attention back to the Hobbit's stoop. An older, shorter Dwarf stood there now, rocking patiently on his heels as he waited. The Hobbit appeared again, looking confused. After a short exchange, the two disappeared into the dwelling.

“Dwalin's brother, Balin,” Trisk muttered. “I hope more show up soon. I'm hungry.”

 _I know. I can hear your stomach over here_ , Visk signed. Trisk glared, then turned back to the road as he heard soft laughter drifting on the evening breeze. It was coming from two figures hurrying up the hill. These Dwarrow looked younger, closer to his age, and they walked with a bounce in their steps, fair head and dark close together. He glanced over to see Visk watching them with a glitter of interest. Agile hands moved quickly in iglishmêk, accompanied by a quizzical expression. Trisk looked at the approaching lads again and shrugged.  
“Must be Thorin's sister-sons,” he answered quietly. A few moments later, a chorus of “Fíli...Kíli...at your service!” confirmed his guess. Trisk rolled his eyes, watching Visk's gray-clad shoulders shake in silent laughter. The two lads strode in like they owned the place, and it seemed to the young Dwarf that the Hobbit was getting increasingly irritated. Finally, the sound of several arguing voices caught his attention and he spotted a large group of Dwarves moving up the road, trailed by the tall figure of the wizard.

“All right, Visk, that's the rest of the lot, I'd imagine. We can't put it off any longer, unless you want to straggle in late.” Panic flashed in the expressive eyes and the youngster scrambled up, shrugging the heavy pack into place. Trisk shouldered his own, then led the way up to fall in at the back of the group. The wizard glanced at them as they fell into step, kind blue eyes searching their faces. Trisk bobbed a quick bow.

“Triskel and Viskel, sons of Kulvik,” he explained quickly. Gandalf nodded and gave Visk one last searching glance before rapping smartly on the door with his staff. The two were hanging back a bit, so they managed to avoid the surprised pile-up when the door was abruptly yanked open, but they good naturedly offered their assistance. Trisk didn't even try to identify all of the newcomers to his sibling, but Gandalf stepped in to make everyone known to their host. The Hobbit's name was apparently Bilbo Baggins, though that sounded odd to Trisk's ears. What sort of name was 'Bilbo?' As the wizard rattled off names, the Dwarf lad jumped in to assist the others in setting up chairs around the table and starting to unload the packed larder into the dining area. Visk hung back in a corner, eyes following the bustle of activity, until Trisk caught the youngster's eye and handed over a platter piled high with ham.

 

Once the pantry was empty (Trisk wasn't sure he'd ever seen so much food in one place before), the elder brother snagged a couple of stools to scoot in at one corner of the table and grabbed some food. Visk took the offered loaded plate, a hint of a smile showing above the edge of the scarf, then settled in to eat carefully. Trisk tucked into his food with gusto, gratefully accepting a tankard of ale from the fair-haired youth ( _Fíli?_ ) as he clambered over the table. Reaching the end and stepping down, Thorin's nephew elbowed Trisk and nodded at his companion, a curious look in the friendly blue eyes.

“Is the lad alright? He's eating like an Elf.”

Trisk's hand flew out to catch his sibling's before Visk could respond with a rude gesture, then indicated the scarf and hood, trying not to draw excessive attention from the others.

“Recovering from burns,” he explained quietly, squeezing the younger Dwarf's arm gently. “Our father was killed in a Goblin raid that destroyed half our village. Viskel was caught in a burning building. He's still healing, and he lost a good bit of his hair, so the healers cut the rest so it would come in even.”

Fíli's eyes widened with sympathy and he bowed awkwardly. “My apologies, Visk. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. My curiosity gets ahead of my manners sometimes. I'll be sure to warn my brother, as well. If you think I blurt things out, you'll be horrified by Kíli!”

Trisk chuckled and Visk nodded politely. Fíli smiled, then turned to point at his dark-haired brother, currently shoveling food into his mouth until he resembled nothing so much as a laughing chipmunk.

“I'm Fíli, and that's Kíli. You are Viskel and?”

“Triskel,” the elder replied, bowing in his seat. “Sons of Kulvik. Our father was already gone when the summons arrived from Thorin, so we came in his stead, as we knew he would have wanted. Visk does not speak,” he added quickly. “Smoke and other damage to his throat.”

The young prince winced and perched on the edge of an occupied bench, edging an older Dwarf over smoothly. A series of tremendous belches echoed from the other end of the table and Fíli grinned.

“Obviously, you'll be one of the quietest in the party,” he chuckled. “Except for Bifur. He only uses iglishmêk and Khuzdul since he took that ax to the head.”

Visk's wide eyes followed the other Dwarf's pointing thumb to a fellow with gray-streaked hair and beard who did indeed have the remnants of an Orc ax still lodged in his head. The fierce-looking Bifur caught the glance, and smiled gently when the youngster signed a polite greeting. Trisk grinned and elbowed his sibling.

“See, Visk, you won't stand out too much. Bifur signs, too, and Dwalin is bald – on top, anyway. I don't think you're even the youngest, with Prince Kíli here. I'm not sure about Ori.” He glanced at Fíli, who shrugged.  
“Oh, Ori's over a hundred, he just looks younger. He's not really a warrior. He's along to be scribe and scholar, I think, and because Dori and Nori wouldn't leave him behind. Kíli's seventy-seven, though, so -”

 _I'm_ _seventy-nine_ , Visk signed quickly. _Not the youngest_. The prince laughed.

“You're right between us,” he agreed. “I'm eighty-three. I'm assuming you're the elder, Trisk?”

“Aye, eighty-eight. Is it that obvious?”

“Elder brothers are easy to recognize.”

The dining area was starting to empty out and Fíli glanced up as his brother brushed by him, grinning mischievously. Following the dark-haired prince's gaze to a politely anxious Ori, dirty plate in hand, trying to get the Hobbit's attention, the golden prince smiled as well and jumped to his feet.

“Here, Ori, give it to me!” Fíli told him merrily. Then, before the flustered Hobbit's eyes, he turned and chucked it toward his brother. Kíli caught it one-handed (the other being occupied with his pipe) and passed it in to Bifur at the kitchen sink. A second plate followed, then a mug, and Trisk joined in enthusiastically when the singing started. Visk sat back, laughing until green eyes streamed tears at the expression on the Hobbit's face, the cheeky grin on Kíli's, Fíli's smug smile, and the antics of the group. As the last chorus rang out (just as Bilbo barged in to find all of his dishes clean and unbroken), Trisk caught sight of Visk wiping away happy tears and the young Dwarf grinned hugely.

_Thump_

_Thump_

_Thump_

Everyone in the room stilled, eyes turning as one toward the front door. Trisk felt his breath catch at Gandalf's soft statement.

“He is here.”

Thorin Oakenshield had arrived.

 

Visk was frozen in place, panicked gaze seeking Trisk's face. He nodded reassuringly, signing a quick _It'll be fine. Leave everything to me_. The younger Dwarf nodded and sank back into the corner, adjusting the gray hood.

Food was found for the exiled king (though Trisk wasn't sure from where) and everyone was quiet as he ate. Trisk stayed out of the way, but soon found the company leader's keen blue gaze on him. Thorin paused, a flicker of distrust crossing the stern face.

“I do not know you, lad. Or the silent one trying to disappear into the corner, and only those I know were summoned to this meeting. Who are you?”

Trisk stepped forward to offer a quick bow. “Triskel, son of Kulvik, at your service. That is my brother, Viskel. He means no disrespect, but he cannot speak.”

Thorin's brow creased and he nodded slightly. “I did send summons to Kulvik, son of Tuvik. Why did he not come?”

Trisk touched the healing scar that ran from his left temple down across his cheek. “Our village was attacked by Goblins a mere fortnight before your summons arrived. Our father fell in battle protecting our folk. My brother was caught in a burning building that same night. The smoke damaged his throat, and he covers his head while the scars heal and his hair grows back.”

Thorin's eyes widened and Trisk thought he saw a shadow of sadness as the king bowed his head.

“I share your loss, Trisk, son of Kulvik. Your father was a dear comrade in the early days of the Exile. What of your mother?”

Trisk grimaced as a spasm of grief went through his heart. “Our mother Laika died the day Visk was born. Da's death left just the two of us. I am a silversmith by trade, Visk a jewelry-maker, but our father made sure we were both weapons-trained, as well. When we received the summons, we left immediately for Ered Luin. Your sister, the Lady Dís, told us where to find you. Our father always intended to be with the group that retook Erebor. We stand in his place, if you will have us.”

Sharp blue eyes studied his face for a long moment, then flickered to Visk. “Your brother looks very young.”

Visk leaped up, eyes flashing and hands moving quickly in protest. _I'm_ _seventy-nine_ _. I go where my brother goes!_

Balin chuckled. “He's of age, Thorin. Older than young Kíli, even.”

Thorin did not respond, still studying Visk's face. The youngster stood with crossed arms after the initial retort, eyes full of stubborn resolution. Finally, Durin's heir nodded and turned his attention to the rest of the company. Trisk let out a relieved sigh and relaxed slightly. Taking a seat, he pulled Visk down beside him to listen as plans were made.

 

The planning session seemed a little vague, considering they were hoping to take a mountain full of gold back from a fire-breathing dragon. Gandalf provided the means of entry, producing a large iron key that Thorin took with an air of reverence (Trisk stifled a snicker when Visk's eyes rolled expressively at Fíli's brilliant deduction that a key meant a door), and even Balin's warnings seemed to be overcome by sheer enthusiasm. That was when the Hobbit, peering curiously over Thorin's shoulder at the map, realized that he was expected to join their expedition. Bofur's eager attempts to describe the danger, coupled with Balin's painfully detailed contract outlining possible fates, soon had the beardless fellow out cold on the hallway floor.

From there, the night began to wind down. Trisk listened quietly as Gandalf tried to convince the reluctant Hobbit to become a burglar, but it did not seem to go well. After a while, the now-solemn company gathered before the fireplace, rich voices joined in the lament for their lost home. Trisk hummed along – he had never been much of a singer, that was Visk's gift, _before_. A glint of moisture in Visk's eyes told him that his sibling was recalling family evenings spent in similar fashion.

Finally, the company scattered through the expansive home, finding spots to sleep in spare bedrooms and on sofas. The four youngest party members found themselves in possession of the living room. Visk was bundled into a comfortable chair while Trisk settled onto the floor next to it, his coat folded for a pillow. Fíli and Kíli were on the couch, talking quietly on the edge of sleep. Trisk glanced at the brothers.

“Everyone here seems to know one another except us,” he commented quietly. “Visk and I feel like we've stumbled into a story already in progress.”

Fíli smiled and Kíli chuckled, emptying his pipe.

“I guess we do all know one another,” the elder prince agreed. “Thorin is our uncle, of course, and Dwalin and Balin are his oldest friends, as well as being our teachers when we were Dwarflings. They are our cousins, a bit distantly. Same with Óin and Glóin. And rumor has it that Dori, Nori, and Ori are kin to the line of Durin, as well, but no one will tell us how.”

“So this is mostly a family expedition,” Kíli added with a smile. “You two, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur are the only odd ones out.”

“And all warriors?” Trisk realized he probably sounded a little dubious, but several of the Dwarves didn't really seem like fighters.

“Oh, no. They can all fight, of course,” Fíli assured him. “Bofur's perfectly wicked with his mattock, but he's a miner by trade. Bombur, his brother, is a cook. Bifur is their cousin, and he's a toymaker.”

“Really? He looks a bit...fierce for a toymaker.”

Kíli shook his head. “He looks fierce, and he's a demon with his spear, but Bifur is actually a very kind soul. The children in Ered Luin love him.”

Fíli nodded and continued his listing of the Company and their skills. “Dwalin is a warrior, of course, and Balin, though you might be surprised to look at him. He's also a teacher, but he's no slouch in the sparring ring, I can tell you. Óin is our healer, Glóin is a merchant. Ori, as I mentioned earlier, is a scribe, and something of an artist. Dori, his eldest brother, is a leather-worker. Nori...well....”

“Nori's a thief,” Kíli put in bluntly. “He won't bother any of your things, though,” he hurriedly assured them. “He promised Thorin. I think he's kind of our backup in case Gandalf's suggested burglar falls through. He's a laugh, though, Nori. I think Dori would drive Ori crazy if his middle brother wasn't along to rescue him occasionally.”

 _And you?_ Visk signed, raising an eyebrow. _Do princes have trades? Or are you simply warrior trained?_

Fíli groaned. “Oh, we've had lots of training, in whatever you can imagine. We're both warriors, of course. I wield twin swords.” This last was said with some pride, and Trisk was impressed. “Kíli's an archer, and he uses a sword. We've both also been tutored in history and _politics_.” That was said with a healthy dose of disgust and Trisk chuckled. “Thorin and I are blacksmiths as well. Kíli is a hunter and tracker.”

“And now you are on a heroic quest to reclaim a mountain from a fire-breathing dragon,” Trisk commented, sighing as he lay down on the floor and stared up at the wood-beamed ceiling.

“As are you,” Kíli pointed out, just before succumbing to a massive yawn.

“And none of us will be able to sit a saddle if we don't get some sleep,” Fíli commented, making himself comfortable in the corner of the couch.

 

Triskel, son of Kulvik, lay awake for a long while after Visk and the princes finally fell asleep. Endless thoughts chased one another through his brain – memories, hopes, fears. _Mahal, let me have made the right decision_ , he thought. _Bring us through this and help me keep Visk safe and whole._ Blinking in the fading firelight, Trisk reached up to give Visk's arm an affectionate squeeze.

“G'night,” he whispered. “Sleep well, _namadith_.”

* * *

 

Bilbo Baggins had told Gandalf that he was going to sleep hours ago, but the Hobbit had not yet actually been able to doze off. Something about having a wizard and fifteen Dwarves staying in his home made it a bit difficult for him to simply settle in for the night. He had stayed in his room as he listened to his guests make themselves comfortable, claiming spare beds and overstuffed chairs. He quickly realized that silence was not going to settle over the snug Hobbit hole as the Dwarves fell asleep – instead, a chorus of snores began, near to rattling the windows in their frames. After tossing and turning for a while, unable to fall asleep, the Hobbit gave up and got out of bed, tiptoeing into the hallway. Perhaps a pipe would soothe his nerves and let him get some rest.

He did not realize that the four youngest Dwarves were still awake until one of them spoke up, mentioning that he felt like he had come into the middle of a story. The analogy was so close to Bilbo's own feeling that the Hobbit stopped just outside of the room, listening as the two who had introduced themselves as Fíli and Kíli gave their companions a brief listing of the other Dwarves' trades. He had noted the resemblance between the lads and the gruff leader of the company – the relationship would explain their inclusion in the Company, despite their obvious youth. The other two in the room were the auburn haired Dwarf and his silent brother – their names had slipped his memory, though he knew they rhymed. He had heard the elder give their taciturn leader a brief explanation of a Goblin raid and lost kin, and something about the younger lad being scarred by a fire. And yet, here they were, seeking to join a dangerous quest to reclaim a homeland they had never seen from a deadly ( _fire-breathing_ ) beast that had terrorized and murdered their folk before they were ever born.

 _Dwarves are insane,_ was the first clear thought to cross the Hobbit's mind as the group finally settled in for sleep. _It must be a racial affliction. Fíli said they aren't all family, so it can't just run in an isolated bloodline_. _Adventures? Heroic quests? Why would anyone willing seek them out?_

And yet, somewhere in the depths of his heart, where the Tookish side of him had slept quietly since the loss of his parents, Bilbo felt something stirring.


	2. We Must Away

Fíli, heir to Thorin and prince-in-exile of the Dwarf kingdom of Erebor, woke in the early hours of a late spring morning with no idea where he was. Blinking, he tried to focus sleep-clouded eyes and pull a clear thought out of his foggy brain.

_Indoors,_ he noted, _on a couch? Not Ma's, though. K_ _i_ _'s here, so must be all right._ _Traveling_ _– that's the only time we sleep like pups in a pile_. As Kíli chose that moment to fidget in his sleep and elbow the fair-haired prince in the kidney, it seemed an apt description of how they had passed out on the couch. An unfamiliar snore alerted him to two other young Dwarrow sleeping nearby and he glanced over to see the younger curled up in a chair, dark gray hood still pulled over his head. The elder rested on the floor, his coat serving as a pillow. Finally, memory came flooding back. The quest! Of course! Uncle Thorin was finally ready to reclaim Erebor, and he and his brother had managed to gain spots in the Company. Their new companions were the sons of Thorin's old comrade, Kulvik. Sitting up abruptly (and nearly dumping Kíli on the floor in the process), Fíli stretched and started working the knots out of his muscles. Trisk stirred on the floor, hazel eyes snapping open before he, too, remembered. The quiet silversmith sat up with a groan and reached out to tap his brother on the arm.

“Rise and shine, Visk.”

The lad's eyes opened immediately, with no sign of early-morning confusion. Trisk grinned.

“You could have woken me. You didn't have to sit there and pretend to be asleep.”

Visk shrugged and signed briefly. _You need your beauty sleep._

Fíli snorted, then reached over to shake his brother. He could hear the others starting to stir in the back of the house, and he did not want to be one of the last ready to go. Kíli groaned and swatted his arm away.

“Five more minutes, Fi,” he whined.

“If you say so, Ki, but Uncle Thorin might leave you.”

Brown eyes shot open and Kíli sat up so fast he overbalanced and fell off of the couch. He glared up from the floor, his perfect impression of Thorin's most forbidding look making Fíli howl with laughter. Trisk was laughing as well, while Visk's shoulders shook quietly. Kíli muttered a rude comment in Khuzdul, rubbing his bruised hip, then lunged toward his brother. Sidestepping, Fíli almost collided with Bofur. The older miner was watching the lads from the doorway, chuckling softly.

“Bombur's making a bit of breakfast,” he informed them with a smile. “But I think Thorin wants to leave soon. Doesn't look like our burglar will be going, but we'll figure something out along the way, I'm sure. There's always Nori, and won't that thrill his brother!”

Fíli nodded and offered his brother a hand up, then did the same for Trisk. “A shame. Mr. Baggins seems like an interesting fellow.”

“I'm not sure he could handle dwarvish table manners for long, though,” Trisk commented with a grin.

Breakfast was over quickly, and the Dwarves made quick work of straightening the Hobbit hole before they left. Their host still had not made an appearance, so they trooped out quietly, leaving the contract, just in case. The Company was in good spirits as they headed down to the local inn where their ponies waited. Fíli blinked in surprise when Trisk brought out two familiar piebald ponies and the brothers loaded their gear.

“I'm fairly certain those ponies were already here when Kíli and I arrived last night,” the prince observed quietly. Trisk grinned behind his neat auburn beard.

“Aye, we beat all of you into Hobbiton,” he admitted. “But Visk wanted to hang back a bit. Crowds make him nervous, but being the center of attention is worse.”

“Do you think he will be all right for this trip?” Fíli asked, swinging up onto his pony and giving Visk a sideways glance. Trisk nodded and checked to be sure his brother was in the saddle before mounting his own pony. Emerald eyes glared at both of them briefly before the youngster's hands moved in irritated signs.

_I'm fine. I just don't like being stared at._

Fíli had the distinct impression that the young Dwarf would have been sticking his tongue out, if not for the soft scarf covering his face. He heard Kíli chuckling as the archer coaxed his pony out of the way to let everyone else get loaded and mounted.

“Makes sense to me, Visk. Big brothers have to be overprotective, though. It's part of the job. Or so _mine_ always tells _me_.”

 

The company headed out several minutes later, the young princes falling into line just behind Trisk and Visk. Fíli had no doubt that the other lads would have been happy to ride at the tail end of the column, but Thorin insisted on a rearguard even before leaving the Shire and his nephews had drawn the short straws (or at least his attention). Leaving his brother to keep track of their environment for the moment, the older lad studied the two Dwarves ahead of them.

Trisk was burly and sturdy, his dark auburn hair mostly loose, except for five thin braids. His beard was split down the middle, side by side braids that barely reached his chest, marred only by the raw slash of the healing scar that ran from temple to chin. His gear was well made, but worn with use, a heavy mace in a harness on his back. A long hunting knife was strapped to each hip and he rode easily, hazel eyes alert and attentive.

Visk was more of an enigma. The younger lad was slimmer (though not more so than Kíli) and his seat in the saddle was relaxed to the point of lazy as he moved easily with the pony's gait. A slender sword rode in a sheath on his back. He wore a single long hunting knife on his right thigh. The lad's features were obscured by the scarf, of course, and his dark gray hood covered his head, but Fíli had noticed a keen intelligence and spark of humor in the green eyes. Both brothers seemed like Dwarves with whom he and Kíli would get along well, which made this trip even more promising. Ori was a nice enough lad, but a bit quiet and scholarly – not to mention his eldest brother looming over his shoulder all the time. Trisk and Visk, on the other hand, seemed lively and fun, and were sure to be good for some laughs. They would either have a marvelous time – or Thorin would kill all four of them before they reached Erebor.

“WAIT!!”

A distant yelp had Fíli turning in his saddle to peer down the road behind them. Kíli was already grinning, pointing to the hurrying figure of the Hobbit as he ran after them. The older brother called ahead and Thorin brought the column to a halt, turning his pony to stare forbiddingly down at Bilbo as he handed his signed contract to Balin. The elder Dwarf looked it over and nodded to the king, who gave the Hobbit one last stern look before ordering them to find the burglar a pony and turning to resume the ride. Bilbo protested, but the two princes rode up to either side of him and lifted the surprised Hobbit onto the back of one of the baggage ponies, much to Gandalf's amusement.

 

The first several days passed uneventfully, for the most part, once they were actually underway. The Company chatted and occasionally sang (that was mostly Bofur). Bombur prepared hearty stews and soups for their meals from the supplies they all carried, though eventually he asked the younger, keen-eyed lads to keep an eye out for fresh game to supplement the dried provisions. At one point, toward the middle of their second week of travel (they had left the Shire, and Bree, behind) they startled a covey of quail. Kíli lunged for his bow, and Ori for his slingshot, but Visk beat both of them, tugging a loaded sling from his belt and letting fly after a couple of swings. The first bird fell to the silent Dwarf's shot, with Kíli bringing down the second and Ori managing to hit a straggler. The other Dwarves laughed and cheered the young hunters until Ori ducked in embarrassment, his face an alarming shade of puce. Visk simply reloaded his sling and returned it to his belt before dismounting to collect their feathered prizes and tie them to his saddle, returning Kíli's arrow wordlessly. Fíli laughed at the look on his brother's face, equal parts confusion and consternation. Kíli was not used to being out-shot – much less by a sling.

“Careful, _nadadith_ – you might find yourself replaced as primary hunter!” he teased.

Kíli shook his head, then grinned brightly. “More hunters, more food,” he commented with a shrug. “And less work for me!”

A general round of laughter followed this remark and the column continued on. Fíli did note, however, that his brother kept an arrow to hand the rest of the day.

 

They made camp that evening on a sheltered ridge. Fíli, Kíli, and Trisk ended up in the group tending the ponies, while Visk took the birds over to the campfire and started cleaning them under Bombur's watchful eye. The overlarge cook didn't speak much, but his brother Bofur tended to make up for it.

“Seems to me that young Kíli should do the cleaning, since you got first kill, lad,” the miner told Visk with a grin. Kíli smiled and nodded agreeably.

“Soon as I finish with my pony, I'll help,” he responded. Visk, however, shook his head, signing a brief negative. Fíli raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Trisk as he helped the silversmith finish up.

“I think he's embarrassed,” the redhead commented, concern in his hazel eyes. “He wasn't trying to outdo anyone, he's just used to hunting on the fly, as it were. And he's a bit nervous about being around royalty.”

Kíli snorted. “Please, don't be bowing our account,” he laughed, slinging his pack over one shoulder and hoisting his bedroll. “Uncle Thorin deserves a bit of respect, but we're just lads from Ered Luin at heart.”

Trisk shrugged and collected his gear and his brother's, hauling it all to a spot near where Kíli was piling his. “You're still his sister-sons, and next in line once Erebor is retaken.”

Fíli dropped his gear and went over to stand next to Visk, watching the lad's nimble fingers as he finished up the bird he was working on and handed it to Bombur. Bofur had helped, so all three quail were on their way into the stew. When Visk glanced up quizzically, Fíli smiled and offered him a hand up. The lad accepted warily.

“Good job bringing that quail down,” he told him warmly. Visk shrugged and pointed at Kíli. Fíli shook his head. “You got the first one. Kíli doesn't care. He was just surprised that you reacted faster. My little brother is proud of his reflexes.”

Visk shrugged again awkwardly, then seemed to think for a moment, before flashing through a series of signs. _Sorry. I'm bad with people, even before. Trisk says I'm too serious._

Fíli smiled and headed over to the area where their brothers were relaxing. “Too serious? Trust me, that won't last. So long as Kíli isn't calling you 'Thorin,' you're fine,” he said with a wink. Visk's eyes glinted with humor and Kíli snickered.

 

Dinner, even on the road, tended to be a loud and boisterous affair among Dwarves, and the quest for Erebor was no exception. Bombur's stew was delicious, and Bofur led them in a few songs, though none quite as enthusiastic as that which they had performed at Bag End while doing the dishes. That had been the result of high spirits and anxious nerves, and the overwhelming temptation to scare the whey out of the tense Hobbit. Songs on the road tended more toward the mellow, perfect for the end of a long day in the saddle, preparing for sleep before doing it all again. After dinner, dishes were wiped out and pipes were lit. Those with the later watches turned in, falling asleep quickly. Fíli sat with his brother, staring absently at the fire. Trisk seemed to have dozed off, but the prince was fairly certain that he could see the glitter of Visk's eyes as he lay back to back with his brother, staring into the night. Bilbo was sneaking a treat to his pony (with whom he had bonded quite quickly, despite his earlier reservations) when a strange cry rang out through the forest. The Hobbit's spine snapped straight and he stared around fearfully.

“What was that?”

Fíli was about to answer when his brother spoke up, and the golden-haired Dwarf nearly choked on his pipe when he heard what came out of the younger lad's mouth.

“Orcs,” Kíli replied, wide-eyed as he glanced around anxiously. “Or Goblins.” Fíli controlled his expression with an iron will as the nervous Hobbit stared at them.

“Orcs?” Bilbo's voice was barely a whisper, his blue eyes round. “Or-or Goblins?”

“Aye,” the elder prince chimed in, ready to kick his brother if the younger so much as snickered. “Sounds more like Orcs to me, though, unfortunately.”

“Orcs are worse?” the Halfling asked faintly. Kíli shrugged.

“They're bigger, and smarter. Goblins are faster. Either is bad news. They're vicious, and ruthless, striking in the small hours just before dawn.”

“At least the Orcs just kill you,” Fíli added mischievously. “Goblins have been known to drag away survivors. No one knows for sure what happens to them, but we can guess.”

“Goblins eat anything, you see,” the archer piped up. The Hobbit blanched, his face deathly pale in the faint firelight, and the swordsman could not blame his brother when Kíli finally glanced at him and lost the battle to repress his laughter. The elder prince smiled as well, just before he realized that Visk was now sitting up, his back pressed against the rock of the ridge, huddled in a ball. Then Thorin was standing over them, stormy blue eyes looking disgusted.

“You think that's funny?” he demanded. “You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke?”

Kíli blanched and ducked his head, looking guilty and ashamed. “We didn't mean anything by it,” he muttered defensively.

“No, you didn't. You know nothing of the world.” With that, Thorin turned and stalked away.

Fíli was still watching Visk, who was giving both princes a look that made the elder feel even worse than Thorin's comment, a still-healing scar running from the younger lad's forehead down to his cheek. He barely heard Balin assuring them that it wasn't personal, reminding them that Thorin had more cause than many to hate Orcs. That led into the tale of the Battle of Azanulbizar, where their great-grandfather Thrór had been killed by the pale Orc, Azog the Defiler, and where their grandfather Thráin had run mad with grief and disappeared, never to return. It was also, they knew (though Balin did not mention it that night), the battle that had claimed their uncle Frerin, Thorin's younger brother. Fíli knew the tale, of course, but it had not occurred to him when Kíli had started teasing Bilbo.

* * *

Thorin had his back to the camp as he fought to keep from snarling at his nephews any more than he already had. They were young, and foolish, and Kíli in particular did not think before he spoke, but he knew that it had only been one of their pranks. Still, the knowledge did not keep the memories from coming back in a rush.

* * *

_War is hot, and loud, and it reeks._

_He is surrounded by allies, yet he is alone. Countless dead lay around him as his eyes search the battlefield. He does not know how long it has been since he saw Frerin, his younger brother's mace coated with black gore, fighting beside Fundin and Kulvik. Fundin's sons are nearby, that he knows, for Dwalin is his shadow, and Balin is ever at his brother's side (as you should be at Frer's, his conscience chides, but they got separated when the pale Orc appeared, and things have happened so quickly since then). The king is dead...Thrór Uzbad has been beheaded by the Defiler, and Thráin Uzbad-dashat is missing. The Defiler has fallen – Thorin himself hacked off the beast's arm, defiant behind a shield of nothing more than a sturdy oaken branch – and the Orcs have been routed. The Dwarves stand triumphant at the Battle of Azanulbizar, before the gates of Khazâd-dûm, but the cost has been too high. His grandfather is dead. His father is lost. Náin of the Iron Hills has fallen, and Dáin his son stands in his stead. Of Fundin and Frerin, there is no sign, and he begs Mahal not to make him return to Dís without their brother._

* * *

“And the pale Orc?” Bilbo spoke up, reminding all of the Dwarves that there was one listener to whom this tale was new. “What happened to him?”

Thorin snarled, making his way back to his gear. “He slunk back to the hole whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago.”

Fíli was not the primary tracker on the expedition, but he had always been perceptive and attentive to those around him, so he did not miss the look that passed between Balin and Gandalf as Thorin returned to his pallet. His uncle might be sure of Azog's demise, but something told the young prince that others were not so certain. A sudden groan from his brother drew his attention and he glanced over to see Kíli glaring at him.

“Why do you let me do that?”

“What?”

“Open my big mouth. Aren't you supposed to be helping me convince Thorin that I'm a responsible adult now?”

Fíli chuckled and tapped out his pipe. “I cannot help you with that one, _nadadith_ , since our uncle still isn't convinced that _I'm_ a responsible adult. His temper will ease by morning, I am sure.” He sighed, looking over at their leader. Nearby, Trisk had settled back into his bedroll and Visk seemed to have dozed off still leaning against the ridge. “He is right, though. We'd never left the Blue Mountains before setting out for the Shire. We know little of the world beyond books and maps.”

“But we are trained warriors, not fools,” Kíli argued, still stung by Thorin's dismissive attitude.

“Trained, but inexperienced,” the elder brother countered. “He wouldn't have let us come if he didn't think we would be assets to the Company, Ki.”

“You, perhaps,” Kíli grumbled quietly. “I still think he only let me come along because you did not want to leave me behind.”

“That's as may be, but the fact remains that he _did_ ,” Fíli replied curtly. “ _And_ he stood up to _Amad_ to do so. You missed that conversation, and I did not hear most of it, but I can attest that Thorin looked like he had gone a half dozen rounds with Dwalin in the sparring ring when it was over. I certainly don't think that he expects you to just stop being yourself, he just has a great deal on his mind. Just give it time. Remember, on this expedition, he is not our uncle, not our mother's brother, not our father figure. He is not Uncle Thorin, but Thorin Oakenshield, our king.”

* * *

Balin, son of Fundin, sat up late into the night, staring at the fire as he lost himself in memory. The abridged tale of the Battle of Azanulbizar had been intended to do two things – explain to the young princes why the king's temper was a little short regarding their poorly-chosen joke on the burglar, and remind that king why so many had agreed to follow him on an expedition that most thought foolish at best and suicidal at worst. Judging by the murmured conversation from Fíli and Kíli's bedrolls, he had accomplished the first goal. Time would tell on the second. A third, not unexpected, result was the rush of recollection into which he found himself drawn. He and his brother had walked away from that battle, but so many Dwarrow had not. Among the fallen had been their father. Balin remembered searching through the dead, hoping against hope to find Fundin alive after losing track of him early in the battle. He and Dwalin had searched in silence, unwilling to compete with Thorin's more vocal search for his missing brother. In the end, they had found Fundin and Frerin within steps of one another, a third barely-breathing Dwarf huddled over them, trying to shield the young prince against blows that could no longer harm him. Kulvik's eyes had been wide with shock as he apologized to Thorin over and over again for not being able to save Frerin. Dwalin had had to sling the lad over his shoulder to carry him for healing, leaving Balin to mourn their father and offer comfort to one who had lost grandfather, father, and brother in a single dark day. He would never forget the sight of Thorin's dark head bent over Frerin's coppery locks. The lad should never have been in the battle. None of them should have been there. The attempt to retake Khazâd-dûm had been doomed from the start, but there had been no way to convince Thrór.

_Mahal, please don't let this quest be another Azanulbizar_ , the white-haired adviser thought wearily, staring across the darkened campsite at his sleeping king. _We can't lose Thorin, or those bright-eyed lads._ _I'll not be the one to bear that news to Dís._ _Hasn't the Line of Durin suffered enough?_

 

 

Translations:

_uzbad_ – king

_uzbad-dashat_ – prince

Khazâd-dûm – the Dwarven name for Moria, meaning “Hall of the Khazad (Dwarves).”

 


	3. Beneath the Surface

Viska, daughter of Kulvik, sister of Triskel, known to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield as 'Viskel,' felt that the tale of her life had become sharply divided by the Goblin raid on the small community in the Hills of Evendim. There was _before_ – her childhood with Da and Triskel, a hard-headed Dwarf lass with no mother, but doted on by her adoring father and elder brother. And there was _after_ – father dead, disguised as a lad, riding with her brother to take back their homeland of Erebor, in the company of a wizard, a Hobbit, her rightful king, and twelve other Dwarrow.

_Before_ , she had been possessed of a certain quiet beauty (though certainly nothing worthy of one of Bofur's ballads), with chestnut hair worn in bronze clips, beaded braids to either side of her face. A jewelery-maker by trade, and a fighter by training, at her father's insistence, she had learned the sword and the knife. She had trained with her brother, hunted with her father, and thought little of the world beyond her village, except for her father's tales of Erebor and his hopes that the Line of Durin would call upon him when time came to retake the mountain.

Then had come the Goblins, and the fire.

_After_ , she hid her face behind a scarf (and it was the least of the physical damage she had suffered), and she concealed her ruined hair beneath an ash-gray hood. The tools of her trade were gone, what little was left after the raid sold to complete their outfitting for the expedition. She still carried the sword that her father had made, and the hunting knife her brother had given her for her coming of age. Her father was gone, and her brother had taken up the burden of the family's fortunes. And what a burden it had proven to be.

Viska did not know how many offers for her hand her father might have fielded without ever letting her know, but they had certainly come thick and fast after his death, every one couched in sympathy for the orphaned youngsters with so little remaining beyond their trades and the weapons their father had left them. Triskel had confided in her, as he always had. At first, the offers had been amusing, if a bit surprising, for she had never given encouragement to any of the Dwarves suddenly expressing interest in wedding her. Then the proposals had become more insistent, and that was when it became disturbing, for her father was not buried a week and Dwarves who had rarely passed the time of day with him were claiming intimate friendship. From there, they started taking Triskel aside and trying to convince him that he could not provide for his sister (although she had a trade of her own), and that it would be in his best interest to marry her off quickly and quietly. Trisk had rebelled, and then he had told Viska what was happening, and her temper had ignited.

Then, like a blessing from Mahal, a missive had come, addressed to their father, summoning him to join Thorin Oakenshield in an expedition to the Lonely Mountain, to drive out Smaug and retake the kingdom of Thrór. Trisk and Viska had read it together, at first grieved for the long-awaited news to come so soon after their father's death. Then Viska's mind had taken a dangerous turn, and she had met her brother's gaze, recognizing that the same thought had occurred to him. It was daring, it was daft, and it went against all precedent. Triskel might be allowed to take his father's place, but Viska would never be permitted on such an expedition. _Viskel_ , however, another lad, would be a different story. They knew their father had not been the best correspondent – what was the possibility that he had ever told his old friend much of anything about his children? Their mother would have, had she lived, for she had been a great confidante of Dís, daughter of Thráin, in their childhood, but that connection had died with Laika on the day Viska was born. It was an absurd plan, but it would solve all of their current problems at a go. They could leave the Hills of Evendim, where there was nothing more to hold them, and avoid the high-handed attempts to wrench Viska from her last remaining family. They could fulfill their father's dream of helping their people return to their homeland. In the end, there was very little discussion. Viska asked “Might we?” and Triskel asked “Dare we?” and the answer to both questions was a resounding “Yes.” And so they had.

 

And so, here she was, riding rearguard with her brother as the party made their way along the Great East Road, bound for the Misty Mountains. It was raining, and the early summer evening had turned chill, and she was more than ready for Thorin to halt the company for the night – but she was free and doing what she chose with her life. She rode with her sling loaded at her belt, keen eyes ever on the lookout for game. She had already taken two rabbits since they had broken camp that morning, and Ori and Kíli had each taken another, but with so many Dwarves to feed (not to mention the Hobbit!), there was no such thing as too much meat. The storm was beginning to strengthen, though, and she felt it would probably be wise for the column to make camp soon, before the wind became too strong, or the lightning scared the ponies. It appeared that the same thought might have occurred to Thorin, for he was consulting with Gandalf at the head of the company and their pace had slowed. Trisk's pony paced off to the right side of the road, hers at the left, while Fíli and Kíli were just ahead of them, having been banished to the back of the group for a prank involving several slimy bugs finding their way down the back of Bilbo's shirt.

A shout from the front of the line alerted her that Thorin had indeed decided to stop for the night, and the Dwarves were making their way off of the muddy road toward a nearby copse of trees that would at least provide some protection from the rain. Viska relaxed and turned to wave to her brother, to make sure that he had gotten the message as well. And that is when her luck ran out.

A great bolt of lightning split the cloud-dark sky, striking somewhere quite close, followed by a clap of thunder like Mahal's great hammer. Several of the ponies startled, but only one panicked. Gentle, biddable Lily, who had borne her rider so patiently from the Emyn Uial, to Ered Luin, into the Shire and now out of it, suddenly bolted in terror, carrying Viska with her. Viska kept her seat, but she could not calm Lily, for the equine was beyond soothing. Before the lass knew what was happening, she had passed the furthest members of the company and the pony was still moving. A river loomed ahead of them (the Hoarwell?), and Lily kept running, and there was suddenly no ground beneath her hooves, only water, and they were in the river, and Viska was slipping from the saddle, her heavy clothing and gear too much when combined with her Dwarven build, and she had never even waded in Lake Evendim!

She was under water, and it was cold, and she could not breathe, and then a strong arm was around her waist, tugging her toward the surface and lovely, life-giving air! She tore her scarf away from her face and gasped, sucking in great gulps of it, and saw a white-faced Trisk dragging Lily to the shore, while a stone-faced Dwalin was reaching out toward her, coaxing her toward the bank. The strong arm still held her, and someone was hauling her toward the bank. Golden braids trailed through the water as Fíli pulled them closer to the big warrior. Then Dwalin was grabbing her arms and hoisting her out, and she was collapsing into Trisk's arms, and her beloved brother was holding her close, burying her face in his shoulder. She could hear the elder prince shouting for his brother, joined by Dwalin and Thorin as the latter arrived on his winded mount.

“Kíli!”

“There he is!” Thorin bellowed. “Fíli, to your right, lad!”

“I've got him!” Fíli's voice was faint and breathless, but Viska heard a faint cheer from some of the others as the two princes were hauled from the water. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she saw Fíli collapse on the riverbank as Thorin pounded on Kíli's chest, ordering him to breath. Then the youngest Dwarf was choking, lurching over onto his side to cough up half of the river, and Fíli was hugging his brother tightly, while Óin tried to get to the lad's side. The other Dwarves were arriving, and Bilbo was fussing over everyone. Thorin was growling, but there was an undercurrent of concern that made up for the general tone of annoyance. Óin was pulling herbs from his pack. Nori was helping Trisk help her up and guiding them toward the copse of trees, where he said Glóin was starting the fire for them. Bombur was preparing dinner, and Ori was handing out blankets to the sodden youngsters to huddle under while they dried as much as they could.

 

In time, and thanking Mahal that the rest of the Company was hovering around Kíli, Viska was wrung out and dressed in spare, dry clothing (including a scarf and hood) and rejoining the main party to find that her brother and the two princes had managed the same. Taking a seat next to Trisk, she let herself relax against his shoulder as her eyes started to drift shut.

“Here now, none of that yet, my lad!” Bofur murmured, tapping her on the shoulder. She looked up as he handed her a steaming plate of rabbit. “Wrap yourself around some warm dinner first. It'll fortify you for whatever noxious potions Óin'll decide you need to drink to keep from catching a chill from that dunking.”

Viska managed a tired smile that the miner probably couldn't even see, then nodded and signed her thanks before taking the plate and eating her portion carefully. Trisk was working on a similar plate, and when she turned herself just slightly, she realized that Fíli sat on her other side, also eating. When he realized she was looking at him, he paused for a moment and flashed her a quick smile.

“Next time you decide to go swimming with your pony, Visk, wait for warmer weather, would you? And calmer waters?”

Viska set down her plate and started signing quick, heartfelt apologies, but Fíli shook his head and held his hand up.

“I'm teasing you, lad. I'm just glad you're all right. Your brother got to the river first, and didn't realize you had fallen off when he got hold of your pony. As dark as it was, you're lucky I saw you in the water at all. You need a brighter color coat if you're going to make a habit of that!”

Viska grimaced, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. _We can't all have that golden beacon of hair, oh Prince of Sunshine_ , she signed. Kíli choked on his dinner and hooted with laughter. Fíli just gave a grin and returned to his food.

Trisk glanced over at the younger prince. “I think Kíli got it worse than Visk. Is he alright?”

Kíli ducked his head and shrugged, brushing a loose lock of raven-dark hair out of his face. “Óin already gave me one of his concoctions. I think I was in more danger from Thorin's reaction than I was from the river – my chest is one giant bruise. I'll leave the water rescues to Fíli from now on.”

“I am the better swimmer,” his brother agreed with a nod.

“Ah, but not so great with boats,” Kíli teased.

 

Later that night, after everyone was bedded down (the youngsters had all been spared watch shifts that night, due to the need to rest after their unfortunate dunking), Viska once more lay back to back with her brother, listening to him snore. Fíli and Kíli sat several feet away, talking softly.

“Are you sure you're alright, Ki?”

“I'm fine, _nadad_. Chest hurts a bit, but that's as much from Thorin pounding on it as from the water. Óin gave me that frightful potion of his, and I don't doubt I'll get another dose or two tomorrow.”

“Why did you follow me in, Kíli? You've never been a strong swimmer.”

The dark-haired lad sighed and scrubbed at his face with one hand. “Habit, I think. I've always followed you – I just didn't stop to think. Visk is my friend too, and when he went under the water, I just reacted, same as you did. I know, I'm a fool. Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Óin, _and_ Gandalf have all told me so.”

“A fool, but an honest and loyal one.” Fíli smiled, then reached over to pull his brother close and press their foreheads together. “Just, please, try to start using your head, little brother. I thought I'd lost you today, and I thought I would die, too. Don't make me break my promise to _Amad_. I swore to her that I would protect you, that I would bring you back safely. Don't make me a liar.”

 

Viska watched them silently through lidded eyes, wondering at the sense of duty that had brought both princes, Heirs of Durin, to the river to rescue a Dwarf they had known all of two weeks.

And occasionally, before she drifted off, she thought she saw Fíli casting thoughtful, puzzled looks in her direction, as though he was trying to solve a riddle.

* * *

Dwalin, son of Fundin, volunteered to take first watch that night, knowing it would be a long time before he slept, anyway. Balin and Thorin looked slightly surprised when the big warrior spoke up, as he generally preferred the last watch before dawn, but his brother's eyes flickered with understanding after only a moment. Thorin's took a bit longer, but in time, his old friend's gaze moved from his face to the four lads huddled on the far side of the fire and he nodded silently.

Dwalin made a round of the campsite as the last of his companions settled in to their bedrolls, then took a seat on a fallen log. Before long, his gaze drifted back over to the quiet forms of the youngest Dwarves. Fíli and Kíli had finally settled in to sleep, huddled back to back next to Visk and Trisk. Fíli slept like a stone, rarely moving, but Kíli, ever the restless one, changed position every few minutes. If he had known the lad any less, Dwalin would not have believed that he actually slept, but having watched Dís's sons grow up, he knew that Kíli simply could not stay still. Which was why the warrior's heart had chilled at the sight of the dark-haired lad unmoving and unresponsive on the river bank. Dwalin had seen the terror in Thorin's eyes when his nephew was pulled unresisting from the swollen river, the panic in Fíli's when he realized that his brother was not breathing. He himself was still engulfed in the initial dread that had seized him when Viskel first slipped from his pony and he realized that not only was the younger son of his lost comrade in danger, but both of the princes he had helped raise were going into the water after the lad. Pride battled in fury and fear in his heart as he waded out to help Trisk pull the unburdened pony to the bank, then turned to pull Visk from Fíli's strong grip to safety. Pride that they would spring so quickly to the aid of their friends and companions, fury that Durin's heirs would risk themselves so early in the quest to regain their homeland, fear that he might lose the closest he had to sons. Thorin was their uncle, and the closest to a father that they had had since Torvi's death when Kíli was very small, but Dwalin had helped train them in combat, and Balin had seen to the more academic portions of their education. The two bachelors took nearly as much pride in the lads as their closest kin, and were probably among the only ones who understood the conflict in Thorin's soul when it came time to decide whether to include them in the Company. The other was Dís herself, for Thorin's sister was just as much a child of Durin as she was a mother.

And now there were two more young lads to watch over, though they would certainly deny the need. And so far, Dwalin had been impressed with Trisk and Visk. They did their share without complaint, fitting themselves neatly into the expedition with light hearts and a strong sense of duty. Not that he expected anything less from the sons of Kulvik. Their father had been only a few years younger than Thorin, a close comrade in the early years of the exile from Erebor. He had nearly died trying to protect Frerin at Azanulbizar – Dwalin remembered carrying the lad to the healers' tents before returning to Balin's side to mourn their fallen father. Thorin had been grieved when Kulvik decided to leave Ered Luin for a small settlement in Emyn Uial, but their friend had ridden away from the memories with a small group of like-minded Exiles, only sending a few letters over the next years. Dís had been delighted when word came of his marriage to her old friend Laika, and even more excited when the letter announcing Triskel's birth arrived. That had been the last word from the Hills of Evendim – Kulvik had never been much of a correspondent, and Dwalin had been surprised when Thorin thought to summon him for the quest. Thráin's son had arched a brow at the warrior's questions. “Kulvik was ever loyal – I cannot blame him for failing to protect my brother when I could do no better. At least he was at Frerin's side at the end. Even when his wife wrote to tell Dís of their firstborn, he made sure she included his pledge to stand by my side when time came to retake our homeland. I will not reject an offer of help, nor turn my back on a willing heart.”

 


	4. Thick Hides & Thick Wits

Kíli, son of Torvi, heir of Thorin, was not having a very good evening. In fact, he would almost venture the guess that this was shaping up to be the worst night of his young life so far, even taking into account the fact that he had  _drowned_ the previous day. Wrapped in lengths of rope so that he could barely move, bundled up into a burlap sack that covered him to the neck, and tossed in a pile with several of his companions, he was currently listening to three mountain Trolls argue over how best to cook the Dwarves for dinner. The current favored method appeared to be slow roasted over an open flame, since Bifur, Bofur, Ori, Dori, Nori, and Dwalin were currently bound to a spit doing just that. The young Dwarf wasn't really paying the closest of attention – he was busy trying to work his hands free, and trying to remember exactly what had led to this unfortunate turn of events.

* * *

The day had started out promisingly enough. The Company got a late start that morning, as it continued to rain and Thorin decided to give it a chance to let up before they rode out. Kíli seized the opportunity to sleep as long as he could. He was not ordinarily one to stay abed long after the sun rose, but it barely seemed like daylight with the thick clouds overhead, and he had been plagued the night through by nightmares and a pesky cough left over from his swim in the river. A jab in the ribs jolted him from the worst of the dreams, and he woke to find Trisk eying him with concern. Kíli scrambled to a sitting position in his bedroll, staring around the campsite for Fíli's golden head. Trisk followed his searching eyes, then glanced back at him.

“He's with your uncle,” the young silversmith told him quietly. “I think they are discussing the path with Gandalf. Thorin seems reluctant to pass too near The Hidden Valley, but the wizard is insistent.”

Kíli sighed and rolled his eyes. “Which means they are arguing. I'll leave them to that. Has Thorin mentioned when we might leave?”

“Soon,” Trisk replied, packing his own bedroll. “I was about to wake you.”

The late start, and the fact that Thorin and Gandalf's debate kept their progress to a crawl, meant that they traveled a very short distance that day. They crossed the river, and continued on for an hour or two, but Thorin finally declared a halt earlier than normal at a burned farmstead, calling out chore assignments before continuing his argument with the wizard. That resulted in Gandalf stalking off in a huff to seek his own company, which probably distressed Bilbo more than it did any of the Dwarves. Kíli and his brother had landed pony watch, so they dutifully rounded up all eighteen of their charges and took them to the remains of a pen that had once held the farmer's animals. Kíli hoped that the others remembered to send them some food, but he noticed that his brother seemed unusually distracted. Fíli's brow was furrowed and he looked as though he was trying to figure out one of the twisty logic puzzles that Balin had delighted in posing when they were Dwarflings. The dark-haired lad settled on a fallen log next to his brother and jabbed him gently with an elbow.

“You alright, Fi?”

The elder prince took a deep breath and nodded, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. “Yes, just thinking.”

“What about?”

There was silence for a long moment, before Fíli turned to look at him, eyes shadowed.

“What do you think of Triskel and Visk?” he asked abruptly.

Kíli stared at him, wondering what had prompted the question. Had the lads from Emyn Uial given him reason to distrust them? Or was this some thought of Thorin's that had his brother concerned? He thought for a long moment, going back over the past days of travel and conversation.

“I like them,” he replied finally. “Visk is a bit quiet, of course. Trisk is quite pleasant – he seems to get on with everyone, but I think there is a bit of mischief in his heart that we should be able to bring out, too. Why? Do you not?”

Fíli shrugged and shook his head. “No, I like them. It's good to have others close to our age – I don't feel so outnumbered by Thorin and the older guard. And both of them have a bit of mischief. It's just...there's something odd about Visk. Not bad, just...different. Like there's something he is concealing.”

Kíli tensed immediately. “Do you think he's a danger to the Company?”

“No.” Fíli answered instantly and Kíli relaxed. He trusted his brother's judgment – Fíli was better at reading people, and always had been.

“Gandalf seems to like them, too,” he offered with a grin. The other nodded.

“Like I said, I don't think they are dangerous to us, there's just something strange about Visk. When I hauled him out of the river yesterday...it just...blast!” Fíli groaned dramatically and ran a hand through his hair. “It's impossible...never mind.”

“Now you have me curious, and you know what that means. Just say it, _nadad_.”

“Let me think about it a bit longer, see if I can put the pieces together. No more than a day or two, I promise.”

Kíli shrugged and stood to do a headcount of the ponies, wondering if he should go back to camp for a moment to remind Bombur that the two princes were patiently waiting to be fed. Sixteen, he noted absently, turning to make the suggestion to Fíli. Then he paused and spun around, recounting the animals. Fíli glanced at him in concern.

“Ki?”

“Didn't we have eighteen ponies?”

“Yes.”

“Not anymore.”

Fíli stood and did his own quick count, then cursed under his breath. A rustling behind them preceded two familiar figures pushing their way through the surrounding greenery, each carrying a bowl of stew. Bilbo froze and stared at the two, Trisk right behind him. The Hobbit spoke first.

“What's the matter?”

“We're supposed to be looking after the ponies,” Kíli replied.

“Only, we have a slight problem,” his brother continued, shamefacedly.

“We had eighteen.”

“And now there's...sixteen.”

Kíli scanned the ponies once more, hoping against hope for the number to come up right this time. No luck.

“Daisy and Bungle are missing,” he sighed, walking through the overgrown pasture, seeking any sign of his missing charges. Fíli and Trisk were doing the same, while Bilbo trotted along after them, now holding both bowls of stew.

“Well, that's not good,” the Hobbit commented, then halted, staring at a downed tree. “And _that_ is definitely not good. Shouldn't we tell Thorin?”

Kíli felt his stomach plummet and fought to keep from shooting his brother a pleading look. A second later, Fíli spoke up, sounding rather uncomfortable himself.

“Uh, no. Let's not worry him. As our official burglar, we thought you might look into it.”

Kíli arched an eyebrow at Fíli and the fair-haired prince shrugged. The burglar was looking rather nonplussed, but he started paying a little more attention to his surroundings.

“Well...ah....look, something big uprooted these trees.”

Kíli nodded, resolutely ignoring Trisk's tiny smirk. “That was our thinking, as well.” No need to let the Hobbit know that the princes hadn't already investigated and assessed the situation.

Bilbo halted and really studied the trees, his face paling. “Something very big...and possibly quite dangerous.”

“There's a light!” Trisk spoke up from his position several feet away. “Over there! Come on!”

Kíli followed his brother's golden head, trying to make as little noise as possible. Crouching behind a fallen log with Fíli and the auburn-haired Dwarf, he peered over and groaned. Bilbo, arriving at his elbow, shot him a look.

“What is it?”  
“Trolls.”

So much for a quick and quiet resolution. Kíli had really been hoping that they would not have to involve his uncle in this. He and Fíli would never live this down. The archer made himself even smaller against the log as a heavy form stumped by closer than he would have liked. The Hobbit peeked out and an outraged expression swept across his face.

“He's got Myrtle and Minty!” he hissed, his voice high with indignation. “I think they're going to eat them! We have to do something!”

Kíli stared at the Hobbit, his mind working furiously. “Yes, you should,” he agreed, relieving Bilbo of a bowl of stew. Fíli snatched the other as the Hobbit stared at them in disbelief. “Mountain Trolls are big and stupid, and you're so small,” Kíli reassured him. “They'll never see you. It's perfectly safe – we'll be right behind you.”

“If you run into trouble, hoot twice like a barn owl, once like a brown owl,” Fíli added helpfully. The brothers gave the little burglar an encouraging shove, then ducked out of sight to finish their stew as quickly as possible. Trisk stared at them in silence for a long moment.

“You really want to get Master Baggins killed this early in the expedition?” the silversmith finally asked. “I thought you liked him.”

“Oh, we do,” Kíli assured him, finishing off his dinner and peeking carefully out to track the little fellow.

“We would just prefer to have some sort of plan in motion before we involve Thorin,” Fíli finished the thought. “And it is probably time for that now. _Nadadith_ , would you like the honors?”

Kíli stared at his brother in consternation, dark eyes wide, and Fíli groaned.

“Fine. I'll go. You know, if you wanted to be the next heir, Ki, you could have just said so. No need to try and get Thorin to kill me. You two keep an eye on our burglar, and try not to get anyone killed.”

Kíli had the distinct impression that his brother's parting words had been intended for him especially, so he gave a vague nod and waved him off. Fíli shot him a final glare, then hurried off through the undergrowth. Listening to him go, Kíli winced. He was the lighter on his feet, but he was reluctant to leave Bilbo, even to get help. Speaking of light on his feet – Kíli didn't think he'd ever heard Bilbo moving around. Perhaps Gandalf was on to something about Hobbit sneakiness.

Trisk stirred beside him as they watched the burglar creeping near the pen where the Trolls had secured the ponies.

“Do you think he'll manage it?”  
Kíli thought for a moment, then shook his head ruefully. “No – quiet he may be, but I don't think Master Baggins is quite ready for this sort of thing. We'll jump in if we have to – I just hope that the three of us can delay long enough for the others to arrive.” He sighed. “Thorin is _not_ going to be pleased.”

Any further comment was lost as one of the Trolls yelped in confusion. Bilbo was discovered.

 

Fíli edged away from the hiding place, giving his brother one last warning glare and a hissed “don't be stupid!” before he turned to hurry back toward the camp. He did not look forward to telling Thorin what was going on, but there was no way three young Dwarrow and a Halfling burglar would be able to handle three full-sized mountain Trolls if Bilbo was caught. Just the thought of what his brother might do was enough to speed his steps through the undergrowth, so he crashed into camp with all the subtlety of a Troll himself. He halted his headlong charge as his companions lunged to their feet, weapons in hand. Visk was at his side immediately, eyes searching behind him as the silent youth drew his sword. Fíli's eyes sought out the stormy blue of his uncle's as Thorin approached.

“What is it?”  
“Trolls. Took the ponies. Bilbo's trying to get them back. Kíli and Trisk are keeping an eye on him.”

“How many?”  
“Three.”

Visk blanched and Fíli heard Dwalin cursing under his breath. Thorin did not even need to give an order – the entire Company was at his side in moments, following the young Dwarf back to where he had left his brother. Fíli moved as quietly as a Dwarf could through the underbrush, Thorin a bare step behind, but he felt as though every creature within a mile could hear their approach.

_Mahal, let Bilbo be alright. Let Kíli have stayed where I left him!_

Kíli was not where he had left him. Nor was Trisk. They had edged closer to the Trolls' campfire, where he saw to his horror that Bilbo had been discovered and was currently dangling by his feet from a Troll's massive fist, denying that he had any companions. Fíli spotted the back of his brother's dark head as one of the Trolls squealed “he's lying! Hold his toes over the fire!”

Before the older prince could react, Kíli was in motion, lunging into the clearing, slashing at the leg of the nearest Troll.

“Drop him!”

Fíli sighed, glancing over to see a stormy look on Thorin's face as their uncle let loose a muttered stream of Khuzdul. Trisk glanced back apologetically and Fíli shook his head. He knew how hard it was to restrain his brother.

“I said, drop him!”

And the Troll did – tossing Bilbo at Kíli, who dropped his sword a second before the Hobbit plowed into him and knocked him sprawling.

“ _DU BEKAR!!_ ”

Thorin led the charge into the clearing, Fíli and Dwalin just behind him.

* * *

The Dwarves fought fiercely, but Troll hides were notoriously thick, and the Trolls themselves were massive. Blades flashed, stones flew – Kíli even thought he saw Visk drop down out of a _tree_ at one point to force one of the Trolls to drop Ori. But in the end, Bilbo was caught again and Thorin dropped his sword to stop the Trolls dismembering the Hobbit in front of them, and the rest of the Company followed suit. In a surprisingly short time, Kíli found himself trussed up in a burlap sack and tossed in a pile with several of the others, including his uncle and brother. Poor Fíli was face-down in the dirt, sprawled awkwardly across Visk's legs, while Trisk had barely missed having Bombur dropped on top of him. Kíli thought Thorin was behind him, but he couldn't get an angle to see clearly over his shoulder. It probably didn't matter anyway – they were all wound with too many ropes to wiggle free. Fíli hadn't even been able to reach one of his many knives. Several of the others, meanwhile, had already been stripped down to their underclothes and set to cook on a massive spit, and their companions had no idea how to help them. So there they sat, bundled in sacks, listening to three mountain Trolls argue on how best to prepare a feast of Dwarf. Of course, Kíli wasn't really listening all that closely – his attention was focused more on trying to work his hands free of their bindings – but he did notice that Bilbo had heard something that caught the Hobbit's keen attention. Suddenly, the burglar was struggling to his feet and hopping closer to the fire, yelling to get the Trolls' attention.

“Wait! You're making a terrible mistake!”

“You can't reason with them!” Dori advised him. “They're half-wits!”

“Half-wits? What does that make _us_?” Bofur demanded, still trying to wriggle loose from his ropes.

“I meant with the seasoning,” Bilbo replied, ignoring the Dwarves. _That_ got Kíli's attention and he abandoned his efforts to untie himself, fixing dark, startled eyes on the Hobbit. He had thought Bilbo was their friend! Next to him, Visk was staring at the Halfling in bewilderment.

Bilbo's comment had also gotten the attention of one of the Trolls. The huge creature turned its squashed face toward him curiously. “What about the seasoning?”

“Well, have you smelt them?” Bilbo retorted. “You're going to need something stronger than sage before you plate this lot up.”

“What do you think you're doing?” Trisk demanded.

“What do you know about cooking Dwarf?” another of the Trolls cut in. The first Troll glared at its companion.

“Shut up. Let the...uh...flurgleburahobbit talk.”

“The secret to cooking Dwarf is...um....” Bilbo was clearly floundering at this point, which didn't make Kíli feel any better about his companion's betrayal, but Visk looked suddenly thoughtful. “You have to skin them first!” the Hobbit finally announced, much to the chagrin of the Dwarves already bound on the spit. The Troll that seemed to be in charge of cooking was reaching for a sharp blade, Dwalin was threatening Bilbo, and one of the other Trolls was scoffing as he scooped Bombur off of the pile.

“Nothing wrong with a bit of raw Dwarf,” it chortled, holding the hefty Dwarf up as though to eat him head first. Kíli closed his eyes, unwilling to watch one of his companions come to such a gruesome end.

“Not that one!”

Bilbo was yelling again. Kíli peeked at the Hobbit in confusion.

“He's got...uh...worms! In his...tubes!”

The Troll yelped with disgust and tossed Bombur back onto the pile. Kíli heard Trisk groan as the large cook landed on him, but the dark-haired young Dwarf was staring at the Hobbit in consternation, unable to believe the lies he was spinning.

“In fact, they all have,” the burglar continued blithely, seemingly unaware of just how much he was insulting the Company. “They're infested with parasites. I wouldn't risk it, I really wouldn't.”

Kíli couldn't help it. “We don't have parasites! You have parasites!” Then something struck him in the shoulder and he managed a look back at his uncle. Thorin was giving him a dirty look, nodding and glancing at the Hobbit significantly. Kíli stared at him for a long moment before he suddenly realized what was happening. Bilbo was being clever. The archer had rarely felt more foolish. He glanced at Óin, who had apparently come to the same conclusion. Within moments, they were talking over one another in an attempt to assure the Trolls that they were, in fact, not worth eating. It took the others only a heartbeat to follow their lead. One of the Trolls looked disgusted.

“What would you have us do, then?” it demanded, glaring at the Hobbit. “Let them go?”  
“Well...”

“Just get them cooked. This little ferret is taking us for fools!”

“Ferret?” Bilbo sounded rather indignant, as if he had not just spent the better part of ten minutes trying to convince the Trolls that his traveling companions were infested with worms.

“The dawn will take you all!”

Kíli had never been so happy to hear the wizard's voice. Even better was the crack of the great boulder on the edge of the depression where the Trolls had made their camp, allowing the bright rays of the rising sun to spill across the campsite as the rock split in two.

As soon as the light touched the Trolls, great patches of gray stone spread across their hides. Within moments, the Company was staring at three massive Troll statues, frozen forever in their last poses. Gandalf was there, freeing Bilbo and then turning to the task of putting out the cook fire and freeing the Dwarves bound to the spit. Bilbo turned to assist the rest of the company, grinning in surprise (and wincing in pain) when Kíli pounded him on the back in joy as soon as he was free. As each Dwarf was freed, he helped assist the others. It took two of them to help Bombur to his feet, freeing the squashed Trisk, who in turn hurried to help his brother. Then they were helping the stripped Dwarves get back into their gear, while Thorin and Gandalf stepped aside to hold council. Kíli wasn't really trying to listen, but he happened to be close by, gathering up his sword and bow.

“Where did you go, if I may ask?” Thorin seemed resigned and relieved, rather than angry, a glint of humor in his dark blue eyes.

“To look ahead,” Gandalf replied.

“And what brought you back?”

“Looking behind.” The wizard glanced around the clearing and sighed. “Nasty business, that. Still, you're all in one piece.”

Thorin snorted. “No thanks to your burglar.”

Kíli restrained himself from protesting that comment. True, they had been captured trying to save Bilbo's life, but the Hobbit had tried to aid them – even if they hadn't realized it at the time. Gandalf seemed to feel the same way.

“He had the nerves to play for time,” he pointed out with a tiny smile. “None of the rest of you thought of that.”

After a moment, Thorin nodded, then his expression darkened as something occurred to him. “Since when do mountain Trolls come this far south?”  
Gandalf shook his head, a look of concern in his kind blue eyes. “Not for an age. Not since a darker power ruled this land.” He stood in silent thought for a long moment, then glanced at Thorin. “They could not have moved in daylight.”

Thorin nodded. “There must be a cave nearby.”

Kíli finished up what he was doing and moved back toward the main part of the Company quietly. There had been something in that exchange, a hint of some deeper darkness than what they already faced. The youngest of Durin's line was not the most perceptive or introspective of Dwarves, but nor was he quite as thoughtless and oblivious as most assumed. Gandalf was troubled, and anything that could cause a wizard anxiety was not something for a Dwarf to dismiss lightly.

* * *

Bifur, son of Drobur, was not afraid of death – but he was also just as glad that he would not die to fill the belly of a mountain Troll. He was even more relieved that his younger cousins would not be subjected to that fate. The erratic toymaker was not always completely connected to what was going on around him, but any threat to his kin tended to bring the world into clear focus, if only briefly. Bofur and Bombur were his only remaining blood relatives and he was fiercely protective of them. The Company was quickly becoming his extended family, as well, and he watched with quiet affection as they gathered up their gear and possessions from around the Trolls' campsite and their own before setting out to find the Troll cave that Gandalf was certain would be nearby. His cousins were unharmed, thanks to the quick thinking of their burglar, and Bifur himself hadn't suffered worse than a slight crisping of the end of his beard. Dori was fussing over Ori as their middle brother rolled his eyes and sharpened the blades of his wickedly curved knives. Óin was going from Dwarf to Dwarf, checking for injuries as his brother hovered at his shoulder. Balin was looking a little worse for wear, but had waved off Dwalin's concern, insisting that it was nothing that a full night's sleep couldn't remedy. Thorin strode along next to Gandalf, deep in quiet conversation, as his heirs trotted close behind them. Fíli seemed lost in thought, with his brother shooting him quick glances. Kulvik's sons brought up the end of the procession and Bifur signed briefly to Visk as they passed, asking the lad if he and his brother were alright after their little adventure. Visk nodded, adding an emphatic _tired_. Which only made sense – the difficulty with the Trolls had kept the entire Company awake all night, and Thorin did not seem inclined to let them make up the rest before continuing on their way. Bifur sighed quietly and took up his place as rearguard with Bofur. The irrepressibly cheerful miner seemed much the same as usual, a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face as he hefted his mattock and led his pony after the rest of the group. He shot his older cousin a smile and Bifur could not help returning it.

“That's another bit of excitement safely over,” Bofur commented genially. “On to the next!”

Bifur shook his head with a rueful grin. _Careful what you wish for, cousin._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember, comments are always welcome!!


	5. Rumor & Pursuit

The Troll hole was locked.

Gandalf had led them to it easily enough, but a massive oak door blocked off the entrance to the cave, complete with a large iron lock. The Company crowded around as Thorin and Dwalin examined the mechanism. After a long moment, Nori stepped up to the leader of the expedition, holding out a large iron key. Thorin took it with a questioning look. Nori shrugged and winked, shooting a glance at his elder brother.

“Might have fallen out of a Troll's belt pouch during the battle,” the thief commented, refusing to elaborate further. Thorin sighed and shook his head, then turned to open the door.

Even Gandalf fell back a step as the door opened and the smell of the Troll hole swirled out to meet them. Bilbo looked like he might faint and the Dwarrow were wrinkling their noses at the smells permeating the air around them. Trisk covered his face, envying his sister her scarf. Rotten meat, spoiled food, old death – the combination was eye-watering. Bofur wheezed as he and Bifur joined the rest of the group.

“Oof, what is that smell?” the miner demanded, watching uneasily as Thorin and Dwalin followed the wizard down into the darkness. Glóin and Nori trailed along, and it was only a moment before Bofur was on their heels. Trisk glanced at Viska as Fíli and Kíli joined the group, then sighed and followed along as she hurried after them.

“Don't worry, Bofur, that's just Fíli's boots,” Kíli answered the older Dwarf cheekily. A second later, he yelped as his brother's elbow buried itself in his stomach. Getting his breath back required a deep inhalation of the rancid air and the young Dwarf seemed to fight to keep from retching. Trisk grinned at him unsympathetically as they surveyed the cluttered Troll lair. Everything was jumbled together, regardless of value, and Bofur was staring at a scatter of gold coins on the earthen floor.

“Seems a shame to just leave it lyin' around,” he murmured quietly. Glóin, too, was staring at a pile of precious metal, having found a small chest half-filled with more coins.

“Agreed,” the merchant commented. “Nori, get a shovel.”

Fíli smiled and handed over the one from his pack, then rejoined his brother in rummaging through the collection. Trisk glanced up to see Gandalf and Thorin had moved deeper into the cave and were studying an assortment of swords. Viska moved up next to him, eyes flickering over the Troll plunder as her hands flashed through a series of signs. Trisk shrugged.  
“I think Thorin just wants to see if there's anything useful,” he replied absently.

“Or shiny,” Kíli added with a grin. “Looks like they found some swords.”

“Ooh, knives,” Fíli spoke up, pulling a handful of sheathed blades from a large pile. Trisk brightened and moved to the fair-haired prince's side.

“Uh-oh, I know that look,” Kíli teased, watching his brother. Viska nodded and Trisk could see the glint of humor in her eyes as she smiled at him behind her scarf. He grinned back at her.

“Some of us appreciate the value of a good blade,” he defended himself. Fíli ignored the teasing, checking the quality of the blades carefully and setting aside those that impressed him.

“How many of these do you think I can stash, Ki?”

Kíli shrugged, eying the knives. “How many of them are worth it?”

“Quite a few, actually,” the elder replied. He shot Trisk a side glance and a smile. “Help yourself, Trisk. There's a good half-dozen worth saving.”

Trisk studied the knives closely for a long moment before selecting two to add to his collection. When he glanced up, Viska had found a small dagger with a hilt barely large enough for her hand. She eyed him questioningly and he took it from her long enough to examine the blade. He nodded and handed it back.

“Needs sharpening, but it's a decent quality. Too small for my liking, but should be be handy for you, Visk.”

Kíli shot the small knife a look. “Not much of a blade.”

“Small means easier to hide, _nadad_ ,” Fíli commented without looking at his brother, busy gathering his newly acquired weapons. “Never underestimate the power of surprise, especially when there is a blade involved.”

Trisk watched his sister slip her new dagger into a pocket of her coat, then go back to sorting idly through the oddments piled haphazardly throughout the den. Several steps away, Thorin turned abruptly from his conversation with Gandalf, heading for the door and beckoning for the others to follow. Fíli retrieved his spade from Nori (who had just finished making a 'long term deposit' in the form of a gold-filled chest buried in the dirt floor), and the young Dwarrow followed without comment, relieved to move back into the open air. Trisk took a seat on a stump and watched Viska sharpen the tiny blade she had found. The princes were talking softly on the other side of the small clearing and he took the opportunity to ask a question that had been bothering him since shortly after the river incident.

“Visk, why does Fíli watch you so strangely?” he asked quietly. “Like you are a puzzle he must solve?”

He expected her to simply shrug, but she raised her head and peered across the clearing with narrowed eyes before she looked at him.

_I do not know, brother, but it worries me._

* * *

Thorin, son of Thráin, king-in-exile of the Dwarves of Erebor, was rather surprised to find himself carrying an ancient elvish sword out of a Troll den. Once clear of the fetid reek of the dismal little cave, his head cleared somewhat and he studied the blade, reluctantly concluding that Gandalf had spoken truly. It was a magnificent sword, perfectly balanced, even for a wielder smaller than those for whom it had been intended. Dwalin was eying it suspiciously, and Balin looked startled to see the graceful blade as Thorin adjusted the sheath on his back.

“That blade looks a bit...Elvish, cousin,” his adviser pointed out mildly. Thorin grimaced and resisted the urge to drop it on the ground. Balin raised an eyebrow and the dark-haired king could have sworn his old friend was laughing at him.

“Gandalf says it was forged in Gondolin,” he admitted. “Still, it is a fine blade. Too fine to be left to moulder in a Troll den.”

“True enough,” Balin agreed with a small smile. He glanced across the clearing to where Fíli and Kíli were talking quietly. The elder appeared to be stowing sheaths in his clothes as his brother sharpened a series of mismatched knives. Balin chuckled. “Young Fíli's adding to his collection, I see.”

Thorin followed his gaze and smiled slightly. “He and Trisk both,” he commented, turning his attention to the other young brothers. “That one takes after his father, fearless in battle. He did well against the Trolls. I am glad he chose to join us.”

The older Dwarf nodded. “The younger, as well,” he added quietly. “Not as fierce, perhaps, but clever.”

“They both need practice,” Dwalin growled. “Trisk said himself that they were tradesmen more than fighters. Kulvik trained them well, but they lack experience.”

Thorin nodded thoughtfully, watching the auburn-haired silversmith conversing quietly with the young jeweler. “The same can be said of others. I imagine they will all gain that experience before we reach our goal. Still, sparring sessions would probably be a good idea.”

“Not until we've all caught up on the sleep we've lost,” Balin put in firmly.

The sound of something large crashing through the forest at great speed interrupted their conversation and Thorin spun toward the sound, the elvish blade leaping into his hand. With the hyper-awareness of his companions common to all Dwarves, but honed and refined in those who led, he noted the quick reactions of the Company. Experienced warriors and tradesmen alike were alert and ready, weapons in hand, despite their exhaustion.

“Is that...a bunny?”

A lightweight wooden sledge bearing a tall, ragged figure in brown had crashed into the clearing, drawn by rabbits the size of large dogs. Bofur was staring at the giant animals in wonder, but Gandalf had approached the sledge's passenger.

“Radagast!” the old wizard greeted him warmly. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Thorin exchanged a glance with Balin. This was Radagast the Brown? He certainly looked more at home with the wild creatures than with any of the Free Races. There was something in the old man's eyes, though, that reminded Thorin of Gandalf – a depth of knowledge and compassion he had seldom seen. And he looked troubled, which could not be a good sign.

 

“Dol Guldur. Why does that name send a chill through my heart?” Thorin murmured, half to himself. Gandalf and Radagast had stepped aside from the Company and were talking softly, but he had caught bits and pieces of their discussion. Balin ceased his conversation with his brother and turned in shock.

“Dol Guldur? That was one of the Enemy's fortresses before the Last Alliance. What brought that cursed name to mind?”

Thorin tilted his head toward the wizards. “The brown wizard says it is occupied again, by a Necromancer. I knew the name, but could not remember why I knew it.”

“Well, you never were too keen on history, beyond that of Durin's folk, but I am glad to hear that you have not forgotten everything that you learned in the school room,” Balin huffed. “But this is ill news, if the fortress is no longer abandoned. That cannot bode well. We are far from it now, but it sits on the banks of the _Fant'_ _â_ _n_ , on the southern border of the forest. Even that distance is too close to Erebor for comfort if evil haunts it once more.”

Thorin nodded silently, wondering. Gandalf had been very anxious regarding this expedition since the meeting in Bree, almost desperate for the Dwarves to reclaim their Mountain and end the dominion of Smaug. Was there more to it than seeing Thráin's people home once more? If an old enemy was rising once more, or new ones were looking to fill a vacancy....

A feral howl cracked through the air around them, far too close.

“W-was that a wolf? Are there wolves out there?”

Thorin glanced over to see that their Halfling burglar had gone pale, hand clenched on the hilt of the leaf-shaped blade that the wizard had found for him in the cave.

“Wolf? No, that is not a wolf.” Bofur's eyes were wide and the genial miner had moved to the outer edge of the group, mattock at the ready. But the attack came from the other direction. A massive Warg crashed through the trees, knocking Dori to the ground. Thorin reacted without thought, driving his blade into the creature's throat. A low growl behind him raised his hackles, but an arrow flashed by his head before he could move as his younger nephew lived up to his training. Dwalin finished that beast off with a twist of its thick neck.

“Warg scouts!” the king snarled. “There's an Orc pack nearby.”

“Orc _pack_?” The Hobbit certainly had a tendency to squeak when he got nervous.

“We need to get out of here!”

“We can't! The ponies have bolted!” That was Ori. What was it with the younger members of the Company being unable to keep track of their mounts?

“Who did you tell about this quest, beyond your kin?”

The Dwarf leader locked eyes with Gandalf. “No one.”

“Who did you tell?”

“No one, I swear! What in Durin's name is going on?”

“You are being hunted.”

“Could we barricade the Troll den?” Trisk spoke up. “Would the door hold?”

Thorin looked to Dwalin, but the big warrior was shaking his head. “Good thought, lad, but it won't hold against a pack of Wargs, and I doubt that there is a back way out.”

“Even if it held, we'd die of the stench,” Dori muttered, dusting himself off.

“We need a plan. We can't outrun them,” Glóin rumbled.

“I'll draw them off!”

The entire Company turned to stare at the ragged wizard. Gandalf shook his head.

“Radagast, those are Gundabad Wargs. They will outrun you.”

The nature wizard smirked, a strange expression on his kindly face. “These are Rhosgobel rabbits,” he countered. “I'd like to see them try.”

 

Radagast's plan appeared to be working. The mad brown-clad wizard sped across the boulder-strewn plains of the Angle, taunting and teasing the Warg pack that bayed at his heels. The speed of the massive rabbits was indeed impressive – Thorin certainly had not expected them to be able to outrun Gundabad Wargs for any length of time. The Company was taking advantage of the distraction, sprinting from cover to cover behind the rock formations that dotted the area like a giant child's forgotten toys. They followed Gandalf's lead, although the heir of Durin felt a suspicion growing in the back of his mind. The gray wizard clearly had a destination in mind and he had been adamant about seeking counsel in Rivendell. For the moment, however, survival was the more important consideration. Rhosgobel rabbits or no, a company of fifteen Dwarves, a Hobbit, and a wizard would be hard-pressed to evade a hunting pack of Orcs and Wargs while crossing the plains in broad daylight. Odds were against them, and the burden of leadership was heavy on his shoulders. He could not imagine who was hunting him, much less why, but now the fate of the quest and the future of his people were at stake, and he would not let them fail and fall.

Thorin looked his companions over as they took a brief break, leaning against the warm bulk of a sand-colored boulder. The Hobbit was beginning to flag, but his face was set in grim determination as he stayed close to the wizard. Fíli, Kíli, Trisk, and Visk were in the best shape, being the youngest, but the others were holding up better than he had expected – Dwarves were natural sprinters but tended to wear down quickly if required to keep the pace up for longer distances.

Glancing at Gandalf, Thorin was about to give the order to move out once more when he heard the sound of claws on stone, and the snarls of a Warg – too close. He shot a look at Dwalin, who was pointing grimly to the top of the boulder, signing briefly. Their scent had been caught and one of the creatures stood above them. The king glanced at Kíli, gesturing subtly to his sister-son. Even as the dark-haired archer nocked his arrow, though, Thorin knew they were discovered. The lad could not finish both Warg and rider with a single shot, and any sound would draw the rest of the pack down on them. The other warriors in the Company knew it, too, and Dwalin already had his axes Grasper and Keeper in hand. Bifur's spear was ready, and Fíli slid his twin falchions from the sheath on his back. Trisk's eyes noted their preparation and he hefted his mace, setting his jaw.

Kíli stepped out, drew, let fly – and the Warg tumbled with an arrow in its throat. It and its rider did not have time to scramble to their feet before the Dwarves fell on them, blades hacking. Gandalf was already moving and Thorin bellowed for the rest of Dwarves to follow the wizard. A great clamor of howls and yips went up from the distant pack as they realized they had been deceived. The noise only served to spur the Company onward, drawing on their reserves of stamina to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their pursuers.

Thorin suddenly found himself plowing into several of the others huddled in a group near another rock formation. Before he could demand to know why they had stopped, Kíli was shouting from ahead of them.

“There's more coming!”

“We're surrounded!” Fíli added, braids whipping around his face as he tried to keep an eye on all of the Wargs at once.

“Kíli, shoot them!” Thorin ordered, turning to look for Gandalf.

 

The wizard had vanished.

Thorin swore under his breath, creatively and at length, as his Company spread out in a defensive circle. They had their backs to a the rock formation (near where he had last seen the dratted wizard), but their perimeter was as wide as they dared. Kíli was ranging off to his left, releasing arrow after arrow at the oncoming Orcs and Wargs. Fíli was just beyond him, twin falchions in hand. Visk and Trisk completed the arc on that side, carrying sword and mace. Dwalin was to Thorin's right, followed by Glóin, then Dori and Nori. Beyond that, he wasn't certain who was where, but he knew Dori and Balin would be keeping track.

“This way, you fools!”

Gandalf had reappeared and was waving them over to what looked like a cave or tunnel beneath the very rock formation where they had made their stand – which told the irritated Dwarf that the wizard had likely led them there very deliberately. Regardless, there was nothing else to be done, as the Company did not stand a chance against a fully mounted Orc pack. Trusting Dwalin to watch his back, Thorin began sending the others to safety, starting with young Ori and the Hobbit. The rest of the group began drawing back as their numbers diminished, tightening the circle – except for the four youths on the far left.

“Kíli! Fíli! Fall back!”

The archer risked a glance over his shoulder and nodded, then started calling for his brother and the two lads from Emyn Uial, covering their retreat. Thorin, heart in throat, saw very clearly when it all went wrong.

Trisk was in the lead, auburn braids gleaming, Visk just a few steps behind. They were just out of reach when the leaping Warg ran Fíli down, sending his golden nephew tumbling. Once he was down, the lad was invisible to his companions in the tall grass, but he must have called out, because Trisk glanced back and veered left, heading back toward the Warg.

“Visk! I need a boost!”

The younger lad skidded to a halt on his knees, hands clasped in front of him as his brother charged toward him from one direction, the Warg from the other. Kíli was pelting for them as well, screaming his brother's name as he tried to aim on the run.

Trisk hit the ground in front of Visk and pushed off, planting one booted foot in the cradle of the younger lad's hands. Visk leaned back and gave a powerful lift as he dropped backward, out of the elder's path. The young silversmith's mace was already in motion as he plowed into the Orc rider, knocking him clear of his mount. Visk lunged up with his long hunting knife as the Warg reached him, opening its throat just as Kíli's arrow drove through its eye into the brain. The Warg dropped, right on top of Viskel.

“Fíli!”

Thorin charged forward, unsure what he could do to help, but determined to reach his nephews. Wheat gold hair appeared behind the fallen Warg as Fíli scrambled toward the others. Trisk was making his way over, mace dripping with black blood. The two elder brothers put their shoulders to the Warg's massive corpse as Kíli grabbed Visk under the arms and pulled him clear. The lad was staggering, but on his feet. Fíli and Trisk took him from Kíli and ran for safety as the raven-haired archer dropped two more pursuers.

Then they were past Thorin, and he was pushing Kíli ahead of him down into the tunnel Gandalf had found. Outside, the sound of a hunting horn filled the air, followed by hoof beats and the sounds of a short battle. After an endless moment, an Orc corpse slid down the embankment, nearly knocking Balin over. Thorin pulled a broken arrow from the body and glared at Gandalf

“Elves.”

But there was no time to berate the wizard. He had a Company to tend, and some were now wounded. He glanced over at the youngsters. Fíli was leaning against the wall as Kíli fussed over him, while Visk was fending off Trisk's attempts to check him for injury.

“”Fíli? Kíli?”

“I'm alright,” Fíli waved him away. “Just a little trampled. And I think I ate a couple of bugs and inhaled some dirt. I'll live.”

“I'm fine,” Kíli answered shortly, turning to stare at the other two youths. “Trisk? What in Durin's name was that?”

“That,” Thorin replied, nodding respectfully to his old friend's sons, “was a maneuver I had not seen in a very long time. That was a specialty of Kulvik's, though I think one of the trainers taught it originally. It never had a name, that I recall. Kulvik just called it 'The Step.'”

Trisk nodded, finally catching his breath. “Da rarely trained us himself, but that move, he did. I'll never forget the pride in his eyes the day we mastered it. We usually do it the other way since Visk is lighter, but -”

“But today, you did what you must,” Thorin nodded. “Well done. You saved Fíli's life.”

Trisk shrugged uncomfortably. “Kíli saved Visk. And that was just today.”

Thorin smiled grimly, then glanced up as Dwalin returned from scouting down the tunnel.

“I canna see where it goes,” the big warrior admitted, “not without going further on. Do we follow it or no?”

“We follow it, of course!” Bofur spoke up, shooting a nervous glance up at the plains they had just left. The sounds of battle had died out, but there was no telling if the danger was actually gone. Thorin nodded wearily and pushed through to the head of the Company.

“We follow it, and see where our wizard has led us.”

* * *

Óin, son of Gróin, was thankful to be out of reach of the Orc pack, as he was exhausted. It was one thing for youngsters like Thorin's nephews and the lads from Emyn Uial to follow a sleepless night with a cross-country run with slavering Wargs on their trail, but the healer was getting a little long in the tooth for it, himself. Not to mention ending the day with a slide down a steep embankment. He sighed grumpily as he edged his way through the narrow crevice in the rock, following an unknown path to an unknown destination. He'd have more work to do once they stopped, he knew. He had not missed Visk's limp and the bloodstained trousers, nor the slice down the back of young Fíli's coat. At this rate, his healing supplies would never last until Erebor.

The healer was last in line, just ahead of the Hobbit and the wizard, so he was the only one who heard their quiet conversation.

“Gandalf, where are we?”

“You can feel it?” the wizard asked, sounding surprised.

“Yes,” the burglar responded, confused. “It feels like...well, like magic.”

“That's exactly what it is. A very powerful magic.”

Óin glanced back, curious. He could not feel anything. What kind of magic did they mean? But then Dwalin was calling from the front of the tunnel.

“Light!”

The column cleared the narrow corridor in the rock, coming out onto a wide, deep ledge that looked over a lush valley. An assortment of buildings seemed to have grown out of, or around, the forest, graceful architecture melding with its surroundings, threaded through with waterfalls, pools, and meandering streams. Óin stopped and stared as Gandalf followed them out, looking rather proud of himself.

“The Valley of Imladris. In the common tongue, it's know by another name.”

“Rivendell,” the Hobbit murmured in awe.

“Here lies the Last Homely House east of the Sea.”

Óin groaned. Rivendell. The Hidden Valley. Elves. Thorin was going to be thrilled.

 

Translations:

 _Fant'_ _â_ _n -_ The Anduin, the Great River


	6. Halls of Healing

 The wound on Fíli's back did not really start bothering him until they came in sight of the Elven community in the valley. Adrenaline and determination had kept it at bay, but now he could feel the searing line of pain that stretched down his back, and the blood running into the waist of his trousers. As the others stopped in surprise, staring at their destination, he seized the opportunity to lean sideways against the stone wall, biting his lip to keep from crying out. Behind him, Thorin had turned on the wizard, his voice an angry rumble.

“This was your plan all along – to seek refuge from our enemy!”

Gandalf sighed. “You have no enemies here, Thorin Oakenshield. The only ill will to be found in this valley is that which you bring yourself.”

“You think the Elves will give our quest their blessing?” the king demanded. “They will try to stop us!”

“Of course they will, but we have questions that need to be answered.” There was a moment of silence and Fíli glanced back to see the wizard looking at him with concern. “We also have wounded warriors who need tending,” he added. Thorin glanced around, sharp eyes taking in Fíli's slumped posture as his face tightened, then he was moving forward.

“Kíli! Get back here and help your brother!”

The archer's head snapped around in panic, eyes widening. “Mahal's _ass_ , Fíli!” he snarled, darting over to slip a supporting arm around his back. “You said you weren't hurt!”

“It's nothing. Just a scratch,” the elder protested, trying to ignore the pain as he moved. Kíli peered at his back and gave him an incredulous look.

“'Just a scratch' that runs from shoulder to hip. Bofur, a bit of help?”

Fíli grumbled under his breath as the cheerful miner appeared on his unwounded side to offer assistance. Gandalf nodded in satisfaction and looked at Thorin once more.

“This will need to be handled with tact, and respect, and no small amount of charm. Which is why you will leave the talking to me,” he instructed, moving to the front of the group, Thorin a step behind. The rest of the Company followed slowly. Fíli could see Visk trying to conceal a limp as they moved down the stone staircase and he had a brief flash of resentment that the younger lad was hiding his injury better. Then he felt Kíli's arm tense around him.

“Trisk, look to Visk's leg.”

Fíli managed a pained smile as his little brother earned a glare for his trouble just before the silversmith appeared at the younger lad's side with concerned hazel eyes.

 

* * *

 

Viska limped in to Rivendell leaning on her brother's arm, her exhaustion not quite enough to keep her from staring at her surroundings. The architecture was so well blended with the landscape that she couldn't tell which had been there first. Graceful arches decorated everything, and the valley had a solemn, yet joyful feeling of peace and calm. She relaxed slightly, tugging her scarf down enough to be able to inhale deeply and savor the fresh, invigorating air. In the next moment, she spotted several Elves moving toward the company and every muscle tensed up again as the Dwarves bunched up protectively. Gandalf was talking quietly to an officious-looking dark-haired Elf. A clatter of hooves announced the arrival of what looked like an Elven war party and Viska suddenly found herself in the middle of a protective ring of weapons, along with Bilbo, Ori, and a glowering Fíli. The young swordsman caught her arm when she would have elbowed her way back out, weapons ready.

“You're wounded,” he hissed. “Don't think we didn't notice!”

She glared at him, but by that point, it was clear that the leader of the war party was the very Elf for whom Gandalf had been asking, and he was now offering the suspicious Dwarves dinner. Before the group could move, however, the wizard turned to them. “My lord Elrond, we do have some wounded folk, if you wouldn't mind.”

Elrond nodded graciously. “Certainly. Our Halls are open to those in need. Who among you is in need of healing?”

Kíli and Bofur assisted Fíli, to his consternation. Viska glared at her brother as he slipped her arm over his shoulder and led her toward the Elf. She resorted to signing furiously (and awkwardly, with one hand on her brother's shoulder).

_I'm fine! Leave me alone!_

Triskel met her glare for glare. “Don't try to pretend your boot isn't filling up with blood. You thought I missed the gash in your leg?”

“Here, lad. Let me help.”

Trisk stopped as Nori appeared on Viska's other side and hooked that arm over his shoulder. Between the two of them, they took her weight off the injury effortlessly – and rendered her silent by depriving her of the use of both hands. Unable to even sign in protest, Viska gave up, her face burning with humiliation as they followed Elrond and Gandalf toward the Healing Halls.

 

* * *

 

Thorin remained with the Company just long enough to see them settled in the suite of rooms that the Elves had assigned to them, then he asked for a guide to the Halls of Healing to check on his wounded. The Elf escorted him graciously, leaving him with the reminder that the Dwarves were welcome to join them at dinner in an hour's time. He nodded briefly and offered his thanks as he hurried in to the healing complex and followed the sound of Kíli's voice to find the younger prince glaring at his brother in a small room.

“You're bleeding. Everywhere. Now get in that bed and let the healers do their work, or I _will_ get Mister Dwalin _and_ Thorin in here to hold you down!”

Behind Kíli's back, Thorin cleared his throat, then met Fíli's gaze and nodded, keeping a stern expression on his face. The flaxen-haired prince sighed in frustration, then drained a small glass of medicine and sat carefully on the bed. Kíli smirked in triumph and stepped over to help his brother ease out of his gear and strip off the torn coat and shirt so he could lay face down on the bed. Elrond and the young Elf that was assisting him stepped forward to examine the wound and Thorin winced to see the ragged slash that ran down his nephew's back, weeping blood. The slide down the dirt slope into the tunnel had embedded dirt and rocks into the injury that the young healer began removing carefully with a set of silver tweezers. Thorin glared at his heir.

“'Just a bit trampled,' eh?”

Fíli yelped as a large piece of rock was dug out of the gash in his back. “Didn't feel it at first,” he mumbled. “Thought it was just a scratch. Ow!”

“Quit being a baby,” Kíli admonished.

Thorin glanced at the Elf lord and Elrond nodded.

“It is not as deep as it could have been. Once it is cleaned, it will be stitched and covered. He will be fine. I hear Dwarves heal quickly, so he should be back on his feet soon.”

“Is there anything I can do?” the exiled king asked.

Elrond eyed the sturdy young Dwarf. “I would ask that you remain while we stitch the injury,” he murmured. “You and his brother might be the best ones to keep him still.”

Kíli gave a wicked grin and Thorin knew exactly what was going through the younger lad's mind. Fíli hated being stitched up. That was probably why he had concealed the wound in the first place. As Dwarflings, the two lads had gotten into innumerable scrapes, and Fíli had always fought Óin when the healer decreed stitching. Dís had once commented in exasperation that she thought her eldest would prefer a broken limb.

“Hear that, Fi?” Kíli chortled. “Stitches!”

Fíli's eyes widened and he tried to lurch off of the bed, but Thorin lunged for him and between the two of them, he and Kíli held the elder prince down to let the Elf finish cleaning the wound. Thorin gave the archer a disgusted look and Kíli reddened.

“Behave, or I will kick you out myself,” the king growled. “I know that you are relieved that your brother is not in danger, but he is injured and you are not helping.” His face softened as he held a soothing hand on his elder nephew's shoulder. “Easy, lad.”

“Sorry, Fi,” Kíli mumbled.

Fíli blinked sleepily, the Elven draught finally starting to take effect. “S'alright...I'll get you back later. Ow! Mahal, that hurts!”

“That's the last of the debris,” the Elf commented quietly, laying aside the tweezers. “Now we'll clean it and put on some numbing salve.”

 

Fíli was fairly certain that he hurt more after the Elves' healing than before, but at least the medicine that they had poured down his throat for the pain tasted a bit better than what Óin usually gave him. He drifted in a hazy twilight of awareness, enjoying the comfort of the soft bed after the time on the road. Kíli stayed by his side, finally dozing off in a chair next to him. After a while, exhaustion and medication won out over the ebbing pain and he passed into a deep, restful sleep.

 

* * *

 

Viska was eternally grateful that Gandalf had managed to chase Bofur and Nori off once she and Fíli were ensconced in the Healing Halls. A quiet word to Elrond had ensured separate rooms.

“I swear you are in competition with the princes,” Trisk groused, helping her strip off her boot and peel back the edges of her torn breeches leg. “You go in the river, Kíli almost drowns. Fíli gets trampled by a Warg, you get mauled and end up under its corpse. Oh, and we were all nearly eaten by Trolls. You've nearly died three times, and we haven't even reached the Misty Mountains!”

_And now we're being healed by Elves._

“Not sure which side of the ledger that falls on just yet,” he grumbled.

The door opened and a tall, dark-haired she-Elf with a gentle smile entered, carrying a tray covered with bandages and supplies. Setting it down, she nodded graciously to the two Dwarves.

“I am Arwen. My father asked me to tend to your injuries while he sees to your companion. Is that acceptable?” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “I hear you ended up under a Warg.”

Viska found herself smiling and pulled the scarf away from her face. “More than acceptable, thank you.”

She grimaced at the rough, scratchy sound of her own voice and coughed as a dull pain shot through her throat. Trisk turned to her concern and she waved him off as she got it under control.

“ _Ada_ did not mention a throat injury,” Arwen commented, her eyes darkening. Viska shook her head and signed briefly, relying on Trisk to translate.

“That is an old injury, and it is healing,” he explained. “Same as the cut on her face...and others. The only new injury is the bloody one.” The last part was stated with wry humor and a brow arched at his sister. Viska shrugged.

_I'm not very graceful._

Trisk did not bother translating that, but simply glanced at the concerned Elf. Arwen smiled and waved him out of the way so she could peel away the leg of Viska's pants and start cleaning the slash made by the Warg's claw.

“Not deep,” she murmured as she worked. “No serious damage, really, aside from the risk of infection. Warg claws are filthy.”

 _Their breath is pretty bad, as well_ , Viska signed with a grimace. Trisk chuckled and translated his sister's comment, earning a bell-like laugh.

“And why exactly were you close enough to smell the Warg's breath? Much less get mauled?”

“They are fast, and the attack was unexpected,” Trisk supplied dryly. “We are indebted to Lord Elrond and his hunting party for their timely intervention.”

He turned his back politely as Arwen helped Viska out of her torn and bloodied clothes, then into a soft sleeping outfit that left only the wound on her leg uncovered. They were helping the Dwarf lass back onto the bed when several loud curses in Khuzdul erupted from the next room and they could hear Thorin and Kíli trying to calm the fair-haired prince as his wound was stitched. It sounded like Fíli had been given something for the pain – his insults made little sense, although _Durh'atam!_ came through clearly.Viska snickered and saw Arwen's eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I would roll my eyes and bemoan the stubbornness of Dwarves,” the Elf maid commented quietly, smearing a numbing salve along the wound, “save for two things. For the first, I have a perfectly behaved, if slightly annoyed, Dwarf patient of my own. For the second, I have twin brothers who behave much the same way.”

“Then clearly it is the gender, rather than the race,” Viska whispered with a smile.

That sparked another silvery peal of laughter from Lord Elrond's daughter. Viska had always thought Elves serious and aloof, but Arwen seemed kind and light-hearted, quick to smile as she stitched the Dwarf lass's Warg-abused leg. Trisk made a face at his sister, but did not comment, glancing instead at her healer as the dark-haired Elf tied off the last bandage.

“No serious damage done?” he asked quietly, taking Viska's hand. Arwen smiled and shook her head.

“Infection was the greatest danger, but it is clean. Rest, and sleep, will do the work now. I would advise you stay off of it for at least a day,” she added, giving Viska a stern glance. “I would prefer longer, but I doubt you would listen, so I insist on a day at the minimum, and I will leave your brother to enforce it.”

Trisk smiled and nodded, ignoring Viska's betrayed glare. Arwen chuckled and gathered up her supplies, leaving the room with unconscious grace. Viska growled softly as she wound her scarf back around her head and face. She felt awkward in the light trousers and shirt she had been given while the Elves took her gear to be cleaned and mended. She was also exhausted. Trisk patted her shoulder.

“Sleep, _namadith_. I will rest in a chair in front of the door so no one will disturb you, but I think most of the Company will be sleeping anyway. I doubt you will even wake before your day of bed rest is over.”

 

* * *

 

Fíli woke in darkness, a single flickering candle the only light in the unfamiliar room. The sound of Kíli's familiar breathing (well, snoring) soothed his initial anxiety and he glanced over to see his brother still sleeping in the chair by the bed.

 _Rivendell. Healing Halls,_ his brain processed. _Stitches in my back from that damn Warg. And..._ he peered under the sheet to find himself clad only in his smallclothes and an unfamiliar pair of light trousers. _My clothes are missing. Brilliant._

“Psst, Kíli!”

“Wha?” The younger lad startled and sat forward, dark eyes blinking in confusion. Then his gaze settled on his brother and he smiled. “Hullo, Fi. Good to see you awake.”

“How long have I slept?”  
“It's just about dawn the day after we arrived,” Kíli replied. “You passed out in the late afternoon. So did most of the others, according to Gandalf. He was by a while ago. Uncle comes by every few hours – I'm not sure if he has slept yet.”

“What about Visk?”  
The dark prince stood and stretched, groaning as his joints creaked. “Next door. I peeked in about midnight. He was out cold, Trisk snoring in a chair near the door. The healer says you'll both be fine soon.”

Fíli started to sit up and winced as the movement pulled at his back.

“Careful, _nadad_ ,” Kíli admonished, offering him a supportive arm. “You don't want to rip any stitches out.”

The elder prince shuddered at the reminder and glared at his brother, but accepted the assistance in sitting up.

“How is Thorin getting along with the Elves?” he asked warily as the archer wedged soft pillows behind his back. Kíli grinned.

“Not bad actually. Lord Elrond supervised your healing and Visk's, of course, and that helped a bit. He also identified that sword from the Troll hoard as an ancient blade called Orcrist, used in the Goblin Wars, _and_ he gave his blessing for Thorin to keep it. I don't think he's let Gandalf ask about the map yet, though.”

“And how long am I supposed to stay in this bed?” Fíli grumbled, anticipating the worst.

“Just until dinner tonight,” Kíli replied with a smile. “Unless you still hurt too much. You'll still sleep here for another night or two, so they can watch for infection, but you won't be restricted to bed. Same for Visk, I believe.”

“My clothes?”

“The Elves repaired them. Your coat and all are in that chest with your weapons. Don't worry – I cleaned out your knife stash before anything left this room. The Elves were rather impressed.”

 

* * *

 

Viska had never been more grateful for the concealing scarf than the moment she and Fíli limped out to the open hall where everyone had gathered for dinner. She had hoped to slip quietly into a seat, but the Company was clearly waiting for their two wounded companions and burst into raucous applause when they appeared. Fíli took it graciously, offering a broad grin and a shallow bow (which cost him, by the small wince). Viska, on the other hand, could feel a deep blush creeping up to her hairline, and she ducked her head awkwardly, stumbling into the nearest chair. She found herself sitting next to Bofur, who greeted her with a wide smile and a clap on the shoulder.

“Good to see you up and about, lad! Trisk told us you were getting a bit frustrated confined to your bed.”

She nodded, rolling her eyes. _Nothing to do but stare at the ceiling_ , she signed, _and listen to Fíli snore next door._

He laughed and relayed her comment to the rest of the table, causing a general roar of laughter. Fíli grinned.

“I'd wager at least half of the snoring you heard was Kíli,” he countered. “But for the rest, I plead the influence of the Elvish pain medicine.”

The Dwarves settled into a spirited conversation, bemoaning the lack of meat in the Elvish diet and complaining about the simple harp music that accompanied the meal. Eventually, Bofur decided to liven things up a bit by jumping up on the table and singing an old drinking song. Viska clapped along, and joined in the food fight that followed, nailing a startled Kíli with cream-filled pastry. As he planned his revenge, she looked around at her companions and for the first time, she felt a thrill of apprehension, wondering if they would still call her 'friend' if her secret were suddenly revealed.

 

The Company spent more than a week in Rivendell. Fíli and Visk were released from the Healing Halls after only a few days, Elvish medicine and Dwarven constitutions making short work of their injuries. Before Dwalin could even suggest it, Fíli was inviting Viska to spar, soon joined by Trisk, Kíli, and Bilbo, at Visk's insistence.

“You need to at least learn the basics,” Trisk translated from his brother's urgent signs. “We'll not make a blade master of you, Master Baggins, but at least we'll make it less likely you'll cut your own foot off.”

“Or one of ours,” Kíli quipped with a smile. “Come on, Bilbo, I'll teach you, baby steps. Nothing too taxing, I promise.”

Fíli smiled as his brother pulled the Hobbit aside. For all of his reckless energy, Kíli was actually good at teaching, endlessly patient and careful in his explanations and demonstrations. Trisk watched, offering occasional suggestions. Fíli faced off with his opponent and drew his blades with a flourish, offering a cheeky grin much like his brother's as he saluted Visk. The younger Dwarf's brows rose and he drew his own sword over his shoulder. The green eyes were alight and Fíli imagined a cheery smile beneath the concealing scarf.

By the end of the afternoon, it was clear that Fíli was the better swordsman, but Visk was improving with every round. The lad was a quick study, alert, watchful, and eager to learn. He had scored several hits on the more experienced warrior through sheer ingenuity and daring. Fíli finally called a halt when Visk started to limp and his own wound started twinging. Trisk had long since taken a seat on the sidelines, calling encouragement to his brother. Kíli was doing the same – apparently, everyone was on the silent Dwarf's side, Fíli noted with an arched brow.

“Tomorrow, you two will teach us your 'step' maneuver, yes?” Fíli asked the older lad, accepting a cup of cool water from his friend. Trisk smiled and nodded.

“We'll do our best. Although your brother has already renamed it.”

“Oh?”

“The Flying Dwarf!” Kíli crowed cheerfully, throwing an arm around his brother's shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Nori, son of Nif, thought Rivendell was a delightful place to spend a week or so, Elven inhabitants notwithstanding. For one thing, it was full of lovely and valuable little bits and pieces. For another, their hosts were either completely naïve, or insanely trusting, for many of these trinkets lay out in the open, unattended, where anyone might walk off with them. It was a shame, really. Nori had promised his older brother that he would not “acquire” things on this trip. After all, he didn't want to set a bad example for young Ori. He had done well at the Hobbit's home – he couldn't steal from a member of the Company, even before the contract was signed. And anything that might have found its way into his pockets in the Troll cave was fair game, of course – especially since he had been the one to “find” the key.

But Rivendell! Rivendell was full of tempting treasures, all left out to beckon enticingly, enough to tantalize even the most moral of Dwarves (which he was not), and taunt the most brazen of thieves (which he was). So it was not really his fault that the hidden pockets in his pack were beginning to bulge a bit, was it? He'd tried to be virtuous, but the Elves left _everything_ lying about! And it wasn't as if Ori even noticed him filching. The lad was too busy with his journal and his sketchbook. Dori, of course, would not see it that way, so the middle brother made sure to avoid the elder whenever his fingers were “itchy.”

That was how he found himself in a spacious, solemn-looking hallway, staring up at a broken sword displayed on a cloth-draped plinth, wondering idly if it would be worth trying to smuggle into his pack. He didn't generally “collect” weapons, but this one had a sense of value about it that teased his acquisitive instincts. Still, the shards looked very sharp, and the hilt cumbersome, and the whole thing altogether too bulky for easy storage.

“They are the Shards of Narsil,” a soft voice commented behind him. The Dwarf turned to find one of Elrond's sons watching him with an amused look on his face. “Isildur's sword that cut the Ring of Power from the hand of Sauron and ended his dominion over Middle Earth. My father preserves it against the day it might be needed again, reforged with the Line of Elendil.”

Nori nodded and smiled. He had only the vaguest of ideas what the Elf was speaking of, but he had heard enough to decide that the sword should probably remain where it lay.

 

 

Translations:

 _Durh'atam_ \- Troll-breath


	7. A Confession & A Choice

“Gandalf? A moment?”  
The wizard turned and smiled at the auburn-haired silversmith. He had been expecting the request since shortly after the eventful arrival in Rivendell, but it had taken the lad several days to approach him, and even now he appeared slightly nervous.

“Of course, my lad. What seems to be troubling you?”

Hazel eyes studied his face. “You were the one who chased Nori and Bofur out of the Healing Halls. And I saw you talking to Lord Elrond just before Viska was given a separate room. Then Lady Arwen seemed to know she was a lass before she ever came in the room.”

“Ah, yes.”

“How long have you known?” Triskel asked bluntly. “And why have you not told Thorin?”  
Gandalf sighed. “I am a wizard, Master Dwarf. Can you not simply accept that I know things?”

“Things, yes. But when it comes to my kin, I'd prefer to know _how_ you know them.”

A chuckle escaped before the wizard could restrain it and he nodded in understanding. “I have suspected since the Shire, my dear lad. It simply took me a while to be sure of my memory. I met your father once, you see, when you were very young, and I distinctly remember that the younger of his bright-eyed Dwarflings was female. As to why I have not told Thorin....” He shrugged. “It is not my tale to tell, and good rarely comes of telling tales before their time.”

The young Dwarf held his gaze for a moment longer, then relief flickered across his features and he nodded with a small smile.

“I was half afraid you were going to tell me that you had seen some great task in store for her, that you were only allowing her on the quest because she had some foretold destiny.”

“And what would you have done, if that were the case?” Gandalf asked curiously, studying him curiously. Trisk shook his head.

“Left as quickly as I could have dragged her in the opposite direction. We are not Durin's heirs, Master Gandalf. We are ordinary Dwarves who just want to do our duty by our father, and our king, not heroes.”

“I promise you, I know nothing more of you or your sister than I have learned on the journey, aside from that small bit of knowledge that she was a lass,” Gandalf assured him gravely. Trisk bowed.

“Then I thank you for your discretion, and I will leave you in peace.”

The wizard watched him go, striding down the pathway of the garden, and the last words he murmured were for his own ears alone. “Not even the wise can see all ends, dear Triskel. Who knows what fates lies in store for Viska, daughter of Kulvik?”

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, Fíli was deep in thought, watching his brother toss pebbles into one of the many streams that ran through Imladris.

“Visk is a lass.”

Kíli stared at his brother. “What?”  
“Visk is a lass. Or, whatever her real name is. That's what's been bothering me. I knew something was off.”

“But – a lass? Are you certain?”

Fíli gave the young archer a withering look. “Well, I haven't _checked_ , but yes, I really think so. Did you see the way she moved while we were sparring? Remind you of anyone?”

Kíli was lost in thought for a long moment before understanding lit his eyes. “ _Amad_. She fights like _Amad_.”

The elder prince nodded. Dís did not spar often, but the brothers had seen her in the ring often enough to recognize the subtle tricks utilized by the fairer sex to capitalize on their speed and negate their foes' greater strength and sheer power. In fact...he thought back to one of the clever maneuvers Visk had used the day before and his blue eyes widened.

“ _Amad_ knew.”

Now Kíli looked completely perplexed. “Huh?”

“In the Shire, Trisk told Thorin that they went to Ered Luin first, and _Amad_ told them where to meet us. You think Ma wouldn't have noticed that 'Visk' was a lass? And that last move she used to disarm me yesterday? I've seen Ma use it against Thorin in the ring. She's lucky none of the older warriors came down to watch us, or she would have ruined her ruse.”

Kíli was staring at him narrowly. “But the ruse _is_ ruined, brother, if you are correct.”

“Well, I've figured it out, and now you know,” Fíli hedged, feeling strangely reluctant to be the reason the spirited lass was not permitted to continue with the Company. “But no one else. Were you planning on telling Thorin?”

“Were you planning on _not_ telling Thorin?” Kíli countered swiftly, dark eyes wide. “ _I_ am the rule-breaker, _nadad_. _I_ am the headstrong, impetuous fool, if you will recall. _You_ are the sensible one. And you want her to continue on with us? A lass?”

“Has she been a burden so far?” Fíli asked neutrally.

“Well, no.”

“In fact, she helped save my life,” the golden-haired prince pointed out ruthlessly. “Don't think of her as a lass, Kíli. Would there be any reason to leave behind Viskel, son of Kulvik?”

“No,” he grumbled reluctantly.

“Then I'll not be the one to reveal her to Thorin,” Fíli decided. “She does her share and more, and she's becoming a good friend.”

“Besides, Thorin would likely leave the both of them,” Kíli commented grimly. “Then we would be down two good fighters before we even reach the mountains.”

“Aye. I do want to talk to her, however.”

 

* * *

 

Viska strolled aimlessly through the gardens of Rivendell. It was Midsummer's Eve, and the elves were preparing for their yearly festivities, so they left her alone save for friendly greetings as she walked. She had no real destination in mind, just a need to move and let her thoughts wander where they would. She was not restless in the same way that many of the others were, eager to leave the elves' hospitality (and their limited diet, and their restrained manners and music). She was simply enjoying her time alone, able to pull her scarf down enough to enjoy the summer smells and tilt her head to let the sun kiss her eyelids. She was doing just that when she suddenly realized that she was no longer alone. She stopped in her tracks and opened her eyes to see an intimidatingly beautiful Elf woman smiling down at her, hair shining like a crown of gold in the setting sun. The Dwarf lass bowed her head politely, then stood and stared, unsure what else to do. She doubted the lady would understand iglishmêk, even if Viska could think of anything to say. And then a kind, rich voice spoke in her mind.

_I am Galadriel, Lady of L_ _ó_ _rien. You are well met, Viska, daughter of Kulvik,_ _but you_ _walk a precarious path. Your heart is true, but the road ahead will not be an easy one, daughter of Durin's folk._

_Is it ever?_ Viska thought in response, not knowing if she could be heard, but knowing she needed to respond. Galadriel shook her head with a small smile.

_It is not too late to stand aside. Your future holds the potential for great heartbreak, but also great joy._

Viska blinked _. I believe I must go forward, lady. To whatever end._ Galadriel nodded and placed a hand on her head as if in benediction.

_Go in peace, child of the Mountain. May your joy balance the sorrow and your presence be comfort and blessing._

Viska stood in a slight daze after the golden Elf lady disappeared, her mind buzzing with confusion until a gentle hand landed on her shoulder.

“My mother's mother has that effect,” Arwen murmured softly. “Are you well, Visk?”  
She nodded numbly. “She was talking in my head,” she whispered painfully. “And I think she was reading my thoughts!”

“She describes it as reading your heart, and she does have some ability to see glimpses of the future. Did what she said frighten you?”

“A little.”

“Do not dwell on it overmuch. Simply let any advice she offered guide you on your road ahead, and remember that the Lady of Lórien wishes you well.”

The Dwarrowmaid nodded, then glanced up at her new friend curiously. Arwen smiled.

“Yes, I was seeking you, but at another's request. The young princes wanted to speak with you. I thought I had seen you wandering in the gardens, so I offered to seek you out. They await you by the silver fountain. They seemed most anxious.”

Viska signed a quick thanks and turned her steps toward the great fountain, a sinking feeling in her heart.

 

* * *

 

Fíli waited alone by the fountain, his brother dispatched to keep anyone else from wandering in on the conversation without warning. The elder prince was beginning to doubt that Visk would join him, but he finally heard hesitant steps on the stone path and glanced up to see the familiar gray hood. Visk approached him slowly, reluctance in every line of the young Dwarf's posture. Fíli took a seat on the side of the fountain and waved the other over. When Visk sat, the prince let out a breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding.

“Visk, we need to talk.”

Guilt surged through him as he saw panic flash in his friend's eyes.

“Calm down – it's alright. Please, I just want to talk, just you and me. My brother isn't even here, and he'll make sure that no one else disturbs us. You can leave whenever you want.”

Visk gave a resigned sigh and nodded, then stared resolutely at the ground. Fíli took a deep breath.

“I want to say this first. No matter what you tell me, I am not going to go running to Thorin. I just want to promise that, straight out. You are my friend, and nothing can change that. I know that you have not been honest with us, but I am also certain that you have your reasons, so I will not betray your confidence to Thorin unless there is a threat to the Company or to the quest. Does that set your mind a little at ease?”

Dark green eyes flickered up to meet his gaze and Visk nodded slightly.

“Good. I am not trying to threaten you. I just want to find out the truth.” He took a deep breath and decided simply to jump in feet first, Kíli-style. “Visk...you're a lass, aren't you?”

There was a long pause, a nod, then a series of letter signs, spelling out a name.

_Viska_.

“Daughter of Kulvik?”

Another nod. _Trisk is my brother. The rest of our tale is true. Mother dead in childbirth. Goblin raid. Father dead. Summons came._

“And Trisk couldn't leave you behind? You had no other family?”

_No one. Did not_ want _to stay_. There was a determined emphasis to that, making it clear that joining the expedition was as much or more her idea. She sighed. _What gave me away? The river?_

He nodded, smiling a little. “For the first clues, yes. Lasses and lads feel a bit different under soaked clothes. I was very confused,” he commented wryly. “I thought I might be imagining it, but then I started noticing things. And when we sparred – you fight like my mother, and that is a compliment, I promise.”

She shook her head. _Never should have sparred. Never should have used the new moves._

“I've seen my mother fight,” he agreed. “Kíli and I recognized what she had taught you.”

She closed her eyes and dropped her head dramatically. Fíli chuckled.

“Despite appearances, Kíli can keep a secret if it's needful. Sheer self-preservation, if nothing else.”

_Does anyone else know?_

“Not that has mentioned it to me. There are certain people who couldn't possibly know, or you would already be out of the Company. Like Thorin, or Dwalin.” He sighed and scrubbed his face with one hand. “Viska, lass...are you sure that you want to do this? You are good in a fight – you have shown that already, so I'll not deny you have a place with us. But if the truth comes out....”

_You are the second person this afternoon to ask if I want to stand aside_ , she signed rapidly, eyes flashing. _I will not. I wish to serve my king and follow the quest my father would have undertaken. I will take the consequences of my choices._

 

* * *

 

Kíli glanced over to see his brother signaling that the need for privacy was over and replied with an _all clear._ He watched curiously as Fíli rested a comforting hand on Visk's shoulder. The silent youth nodded and signed something that Kíli did not catch, then turned and headed back to the quarters where the Dwarves were staying. The fair-haired prince stood for a long moment, watching him go, then he heaved a sigh and turned to walk toward his brother, his brow furrowed and deep thoughts behind clouded blue eyes. Kíli was fairly bouncing with impatience, wanting to hear the outcome of the quiet meeting – he had been too busy watching for nosy elves and nosier Dwarves to pay attention to what Visk was saying, and Fíli had kept his voice to a low murmur the entire time.

“Well?” he demanded as the elder prince approached. “Were we right? We were right, weren't we?”

Fíli cocked an eyebrow at him, the corner of his mouth quirking behind the braided mustache before he gave a curt nod. “ _I_ was right. She is Viska, daughter of Kulvik, and Triskel is indeed her brother. I have promised her that we will not mention what we know to Thorin.” This last was delivered as a warning, steel glinting in his eyes.

“Of course we won't!” Kíli responded indignantly, deliberately forgetting the previous evening's debate on the subject. “I am not sure what possessed her to join the Company, but she has been valuable as a hunter, and good company, besides. Not to mention the small detail that she helped save your life when that Warg ran you down!”

His brother nodded, then shrugged. “But you know Thorin – Dwalin and Glóin as well – would only remember the pony running into the river, even though that was no fault of hers. She says Gandalf knows, as well, and he has certainly not rushed to tell anyone.” He sighed heavily, shrugging his shoulders to work out knots of tension as they walked. “You'll have to keep thinking of her as a 'him,' though, Ki. Guard your tongue, lest it reveal all.”

The dark-haired prince gave his brother a dirty look, then sighed and nodded. He was prone to such errors, he knew – Fíli called it _enthusiasm_ , their mother called it _recklessness_ , and their uncle...well, his terms for his nephew's slips started with _irresponsible_ and went downhill from there. “Did she at least explain why? Why did she not stay with other relatives while her brother rode with us? Or continue in her trade? Didn't Trisk say she was a jeweler?”

Fíli shook his head. “She did not say, beyond the fact that they lost nearly everything in the raid and the fires. She does not want her brother to know that we know, either. But that I cannot condone. There should at least be honesty between the four of us.”

 

* * *

 

“Fíli. Kíli.”

The brothers glanced up from their low conversation to see that Thorin had returned from his meeting with Elrond. Balin nodded at the lads as he slipped by on his way to rejoin his brother, then waved them toward their uncle.

“He wants to speak to you,” the elder Dwarf told them quietly. “He has news of the quest.”

Fíli nodded and stood immediately, Kíli a beat behind. They hurried over to greet Thorin in the doorway and he gave them a small smile before motioning for them to follow him into the hallway. They fell into place to either side, flanking their king, and accompanied him in silence as he walked through the deserted corridors of the Elven complex.

Thorin strode along in silent contemplation, dark head slightly bowed. After long minutes, Kíli shot his brother a questioning look behind his uncle's back. Fíli shrugged and signed, _wait_. The dark prince nodded and lapsed into a thoughtful silence of his own as he considered what Fíli had told him of Viska's brief explanation.

“Durin's Day.”

Thorin's deep, quiet voice broke into his reverie and Kíli blinked, realizing that they had come to a halt on an isolated balcony overlooking one of Rivendell's many waterfalls.

“Durin's Day?” Fíli repeated, confusion furrowing his brow. Thorin nodded.

“Lord Elrond found moon runes on the map. They had to be read under tonight's moon – Midsummer's Eve. That is why we have lingered. According to the hidden writing, the keyhole to the secret door can only be found by the last light of Durin's Day. We must reach the Mountain by then.”

Kíli felt a surge of elation tempered by concern as he counted time in his head. “Can we make it?”

Thorin sighed. “Balin believes so. And Gandalf. I think we still have a long way, but if the Company is steadfast and true, we have a good chance.”

Fíli was staring at his uncle with an unreadable light in his eyes. “Thank you for telling us first.”

Thorin turned to face them, a small smile on his stern face as he reached out to clasp their shoulders. “You are my sister-sons, my heirs, no matter how foolishly you might act at times.” Kíli felt his cheeks heat and ducked his head, but Thorin simply chuckled and pulled them in so that all three rested their foreheads together. “I am glad you are both here. I do not say this enough, but I am proud of you – both of you. You are credits to the Line of Durin, and to your own father. Torvi is watching you with pride from the Halls of Waiting.”

Kíli's eyes were closed, and there was a choked feeling in his chest and a small smile on his face as he stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother and uncle. Thorin's hands were pressed to the backs of their necks, holding them tighter than any hug for a long moment before he released them and stepped back, that small, proud smile still on his lips.

“The wizard believes that the Elves may still try to delay us, so I need you to spread the word to the Company. We leave at first light. Gandalf will join us in the mountains.”

With a final nod, the exiled king turned and left his bemused nephews on the balcony. Fíli stared after him. Kíli looked at his brother, blinking dark eyes in confusion.

“What do you suppose brought that on?”

Fíli shrugged, glancing at him. “He has been closeted with Balin and Dwalin since shortly after we arrived. He has also spoken to Trisk a few times. I think, perhaps, he has been dwelling on lost comrades – Da, Kulvik, even Frerin.”

Kíli nodded. “Well, it is good to hear,” he commented quietly.

Fíli nodded and draped an arm over his shoulders. “Yes, it is. Now, we have news for the Company, and questions for our friend Triskel – not to mention packing for an early departure. No time to rest on his praise.”

Kíli smirked and started back toward the rooms the Dwarves had been given. “There never is, _nadad_. Thorin never gives praise without new responsibility. I noticed that long ago. I think it is his way of keeping us humble.”

“Then it was clearly not something our grandfather employed for him,” the swordsman agreed softly. Kíli threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing brightly down the corridor. Fíli join in after a moment, his lower chuckle blending with the archer's mirth. Kíli leaned into his brother's shoulder, relishing the closeness in a time of rest and peace, so like being home in Ered Luin.

“So, I will tell the Company, you will round up Trisk for a quick talk,” he decided. “Or do you want to ambush him on the road?”

“Before we leave,” Fíli determined. “While we still have walls and the whole Company need not see that we have pulled him aside. We will talk to him, then finish packing. I've not much left, anyway. I thought we might leave soon.”

Kíli delivered the news of their imminent departure to the rest of the Dwarves, sparking a flurry of packing. Visk was dispatched to the Halls of Healing with a list of supplies that Óin was requesting to rebuild his stores, so the princes were able to pull Trisk aside with little effort. He accompanied them to a quiet alcove a good distance away, where they could see anyone approaching. The silversmith seemed a bit edgy and confused, and he froze when Fíli pinned him with a sharp blue gaze.

“Visk told me the truth,” the elder prince declared without preamble. Kíli could see their friend's shoulders tense and he reached out to clasp one reassuringly.

“Thorin will not hear it from us,” the younger lad asserted quietly. Fíli nodded.

“I just wanted you to know that we know,” he agreed. “I cornered her on it and she admitted the ruse, but gave no real explanation.”

Trisk's shoulders had slumped and the auburn-haired Dwarf sighed heavily. “You want to know why.” He sat in quiet thought for a long moment. “She is not going to be happy that I told you, but I would rather have honesty between us.”

Fíli smiled. “She'll not be happy that I asked, but I feel the same way.”

“The raid was the truth. Our father died defending our neighbors and friends, but Viska was not trapped in a burning building. She ran into it. Deliberately.

“We had heard tales, from the traveling merchant caravans, of settlements raided, their females stolen away by Goblins. Usually villages of Men, but occasionally Dwarrow as well. Viska was prepared, answering the call to arms in lad's clothes, scarf wrapped about her head. But several Goblins had targeted our neighbor's lass, a Dwarfling of barely twenty, and Viska intervened, drawing their attention. Then she led them into the community gathering hall, which was already aflame.

“By the time I found her, she was staggering out of a broken door, her scarf smoldering, the legs of her breeches ripped by Goblin claws. The few Goblins that survived, I dispatched myself.”

There was a fierce light in the young Dwarf's hazel eyes as he finished his story. Kíli blinked, dispelling the images conjured from his imagination by the terse explanation. A look of horror flickered across Fíli's face.

“The raiding party had been driven off by then, so I took her to our healers and found our father already there. He was sorely wounded, barely conscious. I promised him that I would look after her – I could not bring myself to tell him of her injuries. He was gone before she woke. Viska never told me exactly what had happened, just that she had escaped. Her legs were clawed, hair burned, black bruises circled her throat where they had tried to strangle her with her own scarf, but she had escaped.

“Within a couple of days of our father's death, while she was still recovering, Dwarves we barely knew started seeking me out, offering to wed her, to 'take her off my hands,' since I certainly could not provide for both of us. I declined, and they became more insistent.”

Fíli's face was furious, and Kíli felt shock roar through his system. “But – Maiden's Choice!”

“Is a tradition of Erebor,” Trisk countered. “Followed by the Exiles in Ered Luin, but many of the families in Emyn Uial were from the Iron Hills. Da always intended for Viska to have her Choice, had even spoken of moving us back to the Blue Mountains, but he was gone.”

“And they saw you as an easier target,” Fíli guessed grimly. Trisk nodded, an echo of his anger still on his face. Then he laughed a little.

“So I told her. Names and everything. She set them straight! And then the summons arrived from Thorin, calling Da to the quest to retake the Lonely Mountain. Da was gone, but we were there, and there was nothing to hold us. _Amad_ and _Adad's_ tombs stand in Emyn Uial, but they are in our hearts, and that is enough.”

“Whose idea was it?” Kíli asked curiously, though he had a good idea.

“Hers. But I went along eagerly. I could not leave her behind.”

Fíli arched an eyebrow. “And how did you convince our mother to be party to your deception?”

“Convince? She offered, once she learned who we were. Our mother was close to Lady Dís during the Exile. Your mother said that Thorin would prate on about 'willing hearts,' then leave one behind for lack of – well, for being female.”

Kíli laughed abruptly, imaging Dís in one of rants against her brother. Fíli nodded with a small smile of his own.

“I was surprised she didn't join us,” he admitted.  
“She wanted to,” Trisk commented. “She told Viska so, but Thorin convinced her that he needed her to take care of those left in Ered Luin, that someone of Durin's line should stay to lead them.”

“Duty is the only thing that would have held her,” Fíli agreed. They sat in silence for a long moment, the elder prince meeting the younger's dark-eyed gaze. Kíli shrugged, unable to think of any other explanations they needed from the silversmith. Finally, Fíli nodded and clasped Trisk's shoulder.

“As I said, and as I told her, Viska's secret is safe with us. I cannot promise that Thorin will never find out, but it will not be from us. And we will try to mitigate the consequences if he does.”

“Though don't expect too much,” Kíli warned.

“It is our deception. We will take the consequences,” Trisk replied firmly. “We made that decision before ever we left home.”

 

* * *

 

The Company slipped out of Rivendell as the sun peeked over the Misty Mountains, leaving their wizard behind with the plan to reunite on the road ahead. Viska noticed Bilbo pausing to stare back at the beautiful Elven valley and she rested a hand on his shoulder. He patted it absently.

“I never thought I would see Rivendell,” he murmured quietly. “It's not even out of sight, and already it seems a dream. I hope I see it again.”

She nodded and squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. Then Thorin's voice broke into their thoughts.

“Master Baggins, Visk, I suggest you keep up.”

With a last longing look, they nodded and turned to follow the others out into the wild lands between Imladris and the mountains.

 


	8. Interludes & Adventure

 On the maps, Rivendell appeared to be nestled at the base of the Misty Mountains, but it actually took a week of travel through the foothills before the Company found the twisting paths they sought. The days passed in wearying repetition, hiking from early morn to early evening along ridges, through shallow valleys, and up small hills. Conversations were kept low and there were no longer songs around the sheltered campfire, for sounds carried far in the open air and they were wary. Lord Elrond's sons had reported no sign of Orc packs west of Rivendell, but the Dwarves preferred to take no chances. They traveled quietly, hid signs of their passage, and set double watches.

Two nights out of Rivendell, Trisk found himself on final watch with Fíli, gazing out into the still hours before dawn as the golden-haired prince sharpened one of his many knives. They sat near where their siblings slept, Viska quiet and still as Kíli fidgeted restlessly. At one point, he shifted violently, kicking his brother in the ankle as he tossed and turned. Fíli paused just long enough to nudge the younger lad's booted foot back under his blanket with a fond smile and shake of his head. Trisk chuckled softly and his friend glanced at him.

“He's always been like this,” the prince commented quietly. “Ever since he was a tiny Dwarfling, never still for more than a moment. _Amad_ always says it exhausts her just watching him. Da said once that it was a good thing that Kíli had a big brother to look out for him, to take some of the burden off of his poor old parents.”

The silversmith sat in thought for a long moment. “How old were you when your father died?”

“Eight,” Fíli responded. “Kíli was three. He doesn't even remember him. I barely do. I try to tell him stories, so he'll at least know him as a father, rather than just the tales of him as a friend and hunter that Thorin and the others share, but I don't know how much of what I remember is actual memory, and how much a child's interpretation of the world.”

“I don't think it matters,” Trisk answered with a small smile. “I was nine when my mother died giving birth. Da never corrected any of the tales I told.”

Fíli nodded silently as he slipped the knife back under his coat collar.

“She didn't want him to come along, you know,” he commented absently. “ _Amad_. She said Kíli was too young. Well, she said both of us were too young, but she'd not deny my place as Thorin's heir. We tried everything – arguing, pleading, silence. I even threatened to stay home with him at one point. She would not budge.”

Trisk grinned slightly, imagining the fiery Dwarrowdam he had met in Ered Luin engaged in a battle of wills with her stubborn, impetuous offspring. “What changed her mind?”

“Thorin.”

Trisk's eyebrows crept up in surprise and Fíli chuckled.

“It startled us, too. He had stayed out of it for an entire week. Then he and I came home from the forge and walked in on the end of a shouting match. Kíli stormed out to go hunting. I was about to follow when Thorin announced that both of us were going on the expedition. _Amad_ exploded.” The prince's blue eyes held awe at the memory. “Thorin told me to leave, but of course I didn't go far. I couldn't. I had to hear. They spoke quietly – too quietly, for that is when both of them begin to terrify me, when they go quiet and polite. It is chilling. I only caught bits and pieces, but it was enough. Thorin pointed out that we fight best together, as a unit. Ma said she didn't want to send both of her sons into danger, it would be bad enough to lose one...and that is when he asked what she thought would happen if she parted us and something happened to one while the other was far away. The silence was heartbreaking. He won that point, but it just led into another argument, about her coming along. You know how that one turned out.” He smirked slightly. “Thorin refused to spar with her again before we left. Dwalin agreed. Once.”

 

* * *

 

The third night out of Rivendell, the deep hours of the second watch found Viska and Kíli sitting on a low hill, barely in reach of the firelight. The younger prince had been rather quiet all day, and the Dwarf lass didn't really expect him to be in the mood for conversation that night, so she was a bit surprised when his low voice broke the easy silence.

“Do you ever regret joining the quest?”

_Not for a moment._

“Enjoying the danger?” he teased. She shook her head and tossed a pebble at him before answering.

_Enjoying the company. I told Fíli once that I'm bad with people, and it was true. I've always been shy. Da thought it was because I grew up with just him and Trisk. I didn't fit in with the few other lasses, and the lads could never forget that I was a lass._

He snorted. “Lads tend to be like that.”

_I couldn't even spar with them – they were afraid of hurting me. Trisk was the only one who wouldn't hold back._

He nodded and sank back into silence for a long moment before speaking again.

“Do you miss home?”  
She sat in thought for a long moment, mulling over the unexpected question before she answered.

_Yes. And no. I miss the idea of home. I miss being there with Da and Trisk. But that home does not exist any longer. Trisk is here, and Da is gone. I do not miss the place._

“Is that why you didn't stay?”

_One reason. My place is with Trisk. Perhaps, one day, Erebor will be home._

Kíli nodded, then sighed heavily, a faraway look in his deep eyes. “I miss home. I miss the music – me and Fi playing our fiddles, Thorin on his harp, _Amad_ singing. I miss the elaborate pranks we pulled. Ma scolding us for mischief. I miss visiting Da's tomb, and Fíli telling stories that were probably half made up, but it didn't matter. I miss Ma's smile.” He snapped his mouth shut and grinned at her sheepishly. “And now you think I'm completely pathetic.”

She smiled softly behind her scarf and shook her head. _No. Never. I miss Da. I miss his voice, his laugh. There is no shame in missing those we love._

 

* * *

 

Second watch was Bilbo's least favorite chore with the Company, but at least this time he was partnered with one of the friendlier, younger Dwarves on this, the fifth night out of Rivendell. Triskel was a pleasant enough companion, and he did not mind the occasional question, although he did not always answer them. For the moment, though, the Hobbit had no questions. He was content to sit and smoke in silent company, watching the darkness. He was talking softly to himself before he even realized it.

“I miss the music.”

Trisk glanced at him. “The Elvish music, in Rivendell? It was a bit depressing for me.”

The Halfling chuckled and shook his head. “No accounting for taste, but no, I meant music in general. I know why we are being quiet, but I miss Bofur's songs in the evenings. Hobbits are very fond of music, though I'm no singer myself. It was quite...comforting.” Bilbo lapsed into silence, unsure how to truly express the peace that filled his heart when the Dwarves were at ease enough to sing and tell their tales. He felt Trisk's eyes on him after a moment, and the young Dwarf cleared his throat.

“Dwarves are fond of music, too, as I'm sure you can tell. Perhaps that is one of the unifying threads through the Races. My parents used to sing all the time. My da had a rich, deep voice, almost like Thorin's. I remember when I was very small, they would sing together in the evenings, or Ma would sing while he played his flute.”

The Hobbit glanced over to see that the lad's hazel eyes were staring into a far distance of memory, a small sad smile on his face.

“When _Amad_ died, Da stopped singing, stopped playing. It was like the music died with her. Even my singing seemed to bother him, so I only sang to the baby. My voice isn't the best, but it would always soothe Visk to sleep when he was a Dwarfling. As he got older, we began to sing together. One night, Da came home early from the forge and heard us singing one of Ma's favorite ballads. We didn't realize he was there. We just heard this rumbling voice join in and we looked up to see him standing in the doorway, tears on his face. The music came back after that. Until he died. Visk brought his flute when we left home – I think it's in his pack.”

“Does he play?” Bilbo asked, fascinated by the idea of the silent lad playing the flute. Trisk shook his head.

“Actually, I do. Visk always sang.”

“Poor lad.” The Hobbit tried to imagine what it would be like to be unable to speak. “I hope his throat improves so he can talk again soon.”

“It's getting better,” the silversmith assured him. “He can whisper now, if he has to, but it starts to hurt after a while.”

Bilbo nodded, musing quietly. “I wish I could understand his sign language,” he lamented absently. “I should like to be able to converse with him and Bifur.”

Trisk smiled. “Don't let Thorin hear you say that, Master Burglar,” he murmured. “Iglishmêk is as close to Dwarven hearts as Khuzdul. We never teach either of them to outsiders.”

He looked at the young Dwarf quizzically. “The Dwarf languages are really that big of a secret? But Thorin has spoken Khuzdul in front of me and Gandalf.”

The lad laughed. “I think Gandalf is an exception to a lot of rules, but you'll notice none of us do it often, and only certain words or phrases. Our battle cry is a well-known one, for instance. But Thorin would never teach it to you, nor will any of us. Not unless there are highly unusual circumstances. Our language was crafted for us by Aulë himself, you see, and it has been preserved, unchanging, throughout our history. The languages of Men and Elves are fluid, ever-evolving, but not Khuzdul. Perhaps it is a symbol of our stubborn intractability.”

The burglar smiled. “Or perhaps a sign of respect for your Maker that you choose to preserve his gift.”

He seemed to think for a moment, then nodded. “Perhaps. We use the Common Tongue for most things, though. Even our everyday names are taken from the tongues of Men.”

“Everyday names?” Bilbo asked, puzzled. “You have other names?”

“Every Dwarf has a true name in Khuzdul, but it is never recorded, even on our tombs. Names are power, Master Baggins, and Dwarves are protective of all that they have.”

 

* * *

 

Trisk found himself on first watch with a slightly-less-pensive Kíli on the seventh night. The Company was hoping to start up the first of the mountain paths the next morning, and spirits were rising with the altitude as they continued to see no sign of pursuit by the Orcs. Trisk had one of his blades out, whittling idly at a block of wood that might hold a small flute. Kíli was smoking his pipe, his gaze distant and thoughtful.

“Your father was an old friend of Thorin's from Erebor, right?”

Trisk shook his head. “He was a child in Erebor, yes, but I don't think he actually got to be friends with Thorin until the Exile,” he replied. He shot the young prince a grin. “No new tales of your uncle's childhood here, I'm afraid. _Adad_ was the only survivor of his family and he became close friends with Thorin, Frerin, Balin, and Dwalin as they traveled.”

“He was at Azanulbizar?”

“He was. He was part of the group that got trapped with their backs to Kheled-zarâm.”

Kíli hissed in recognition. “That is where Thorin's brother fell, my uncle, Frerin.”

The silversmith nodded. “Fundin, too. Da never remembered the entirety of the battle, not clearly. He remembered fighting back to back with Fundin over a wounded Frerin. Then Fundin fell. His next memory, he was crouched over Frerin, trying to protect him beyond death, and Dwalin was pulling him away, carrying him to the healers. He thought he would die – wanted to, for failing. But he didn't. And Thorin forgave him. But _Adad_ could not forgive himself. He could not settle in Ered Luin, not and be at peace, so he left with some of the survivors from the Iron Hills, seeking a new life.” He chuckled softly. “He never expected _Amad_ to join him, much less Choose him.”

Kíli sat in quiet thought for a long moment as he finished his pipe. Then he sighed. “The tales always make battle sound so...glorious. But the real stories, from the ones who were there, are very different, aren't they?”

Trisk shrugged. “If the stories told the truth of war, no one would want to fight. And sometimes, it is necessary to fight to preserve what is good in the world.”

 

* * *

 

The long ascent into the Misty Mountains began halfway through the eighth day from Rivendell and added a new level to the Company's exhaustion that night. Viska was reluctantly roused from sleep for her spot on second watch by a grumpy Kíli, who promptly curled up in his blanket and passed out. The Dwarrowmaid made her way carefully through the campsite to join the elder prince where he sat watching the night. She settled in next to him, her eyes adjusting quickly to the moonless darkness, lit only by the faint glow of the banked fire. After a long moment, he glanced over at her, his face concerned.

“You seem...preoccupied...since Rivendell,” he commented lightly. “Did something happen with the elves? Or do you just regret leaving, like our burglar?”

She smiled slightly. _I miss the peace of the valley, but I do not regret leaving. I chose the quest, and I will see it through. I will not turn aside willingly._

He nodded, a question in his eyes. “You mentioned that before, that I was the second to ask if you would stand aside. Who else? Your brother?”

Viska snorted. _Trisk had his answer before we left_ _home_ _. No. It was an Elf lady. A very powerful one. She spoke in my mind._

Fíli looked at her sharply. “In your mind? Not Lord Elrond's daughter?”

_No. She said her name was Galadriel, of Lórien._ She spelled out the unfamiliar names as best she could. _Arwen said she was her grandmother._

“Lórien?” His eyes widened. “That was the Elven realm east of Khazâd-dûm – the one they say is ruled by a witch! And she spoke in your mind? What did she say?”

The Dwarf lass shook her head, still confused by what she had heard on Midsummer's Eve. _She greeted me by name, and told me that I had a dangerous road ahead, but I could still stand aside. And that my future held both heartbreak and joy._ She shrugged. _When I told her that I would continue, regardless, she wished me well. Then she was gone._

The prince chuckled dryly. “Well, that's not disturbing at all. Although, I suppose heartbreak and joy make up everyone's future, if you think about it.”

_This felt more...immediate. As though she knew of something specific._ She sighed heavily. _I don't know. It was like she looked into my heart. My soul. It was..._

“Unnerving?”

_Very_.

 

* * *

 

Kíli was heartily sick of rain. It seemed like it had rained more days than not since they had left Bag End and the young Dwarf was tired of feeling waterlogged. Warm spring rains or cooling summer showers were fine, freezing torrential downpours that made the rocky mountain path slick and treacherous were another matter entirely. The archer's blue hood was pulled as far forward as it would go, but it did little good when the wind would throw the rain into his face and make it difficult to see clearly. He had given up trying to watch anything except the path or the back of the Dwarf in front of him – which happened to be Viska. The lass was moving carefully, one hand on the stone wall as she walked.

Kíli hadn't really decided what he thought of the disguised Dwarrowmaid accompanying them. He liked her – she appreciated his jokes and pranks and had a quirky sense of humor herself, and was more than willing to do her share of the chores. She had proven herself handy in a fight, and quick to push herself back to fighting shape after her recent injury, and she had improved every day since. There was no doubt that she was an asset to the expedition, and quickly becoming a dear friend. It was just difficult for the young prince to keep in mind that she was both lass and fighter.

It was foolish, he knew – his own mother would laugh in his face if he ever suggested she wasn't capable of fighting at her brother's side. He also knew that Erebor had once boasted entire regiments of female warriors, but that was long ago. Before Smaug. Before the Exile. Before Durin's folk had dwindled so drastically. With only one in three babes born female, and most families never having more than two or three children, their numbers had never recovered from the fall of the Mountain and the slaughter at Khazâd-dûm.

And there was Viska's own horrific experience, as Trisk had told the princes in secret. Mauled and strangled by Goblins that sought not to kill, but to take, to keep...his thoughts shuddered away from the half-formed images in his mind. He was young, but not entirely ignorant – Trisk had not needed to explain why the Goblins had wanted the lass ( _any_ lass). Every chivalrous Dwarfy protective instinct that Kíli possessed screamed at him to safeguard his spirited young friend. And every ounce of his self-preservation told him that she'd hand him his ears before he knew what was happening if he tried to act on those instincts. So, he would have to settle for watching out for her the best he could, as he did for everyone. She had her brother to watch her back – and, Kíli was starting to suspect, _his_ brother, as well. Viska's admission of her ruse, and Trisk's more detailed explanation, had not done much to soothe Fíli's preoccupation. He had agreed to keep their secret, agreed that she could take care of herself on the quest, but Kíli still caught his fair-haired brother watching the silent lass with an inscrutable expression on his normally open face and a curious light in his blue eyes.

A great clap of thunder echoed through the high mountain pass, jolting Kíli out of his thoughts and startling him so he slipped on the wet stone. A strong hand caught his shoulder as Fíli steadied him and the young archer gave him a wave of thanks, not bothering to take his eyes off of the path. Someone bellowed up ahead, but he could not make out the words. He glanced up as Viska turned, reaching back to press him against the mountainside. He did not resist, dark eyes wide as he watched a boulder the size of a house slam into the mountain above them. Large chunks of rock broke off, showering down on the Company as they huddled on the exposed trail.

Then Balin's voice floated back on the wind, saying something about a thunder battle, and behind Kíli, Bofur was stepping out to stare at something with a look of wonder.

“Giants! Stone giants!”

Kíli looked up and followed the miner's stunned gaze just before whoever was behind Bofur pulled him back from the edge. Down the pass, a massive figure had appeared, looking hewn from the mountain itself. It was humanoid in shape, but the stony face had no features and it looked like something a Dwarfling might cobble together. But there was no doubt that it was alive – as was the second giant, which had appeared behind them. Kíli pressed himself back against the rock, fingers scrabbling for handholds as the cliff on which they stood began to shudder beneath their feet. Then he abruptly found himself staring at a fissure splitting the very ledge on which he stood. It widened before his eyes and he realized that his brother was on the far side.

“Kíli! Quick! Grab my hand!”

He stared, frozen, for a breathless eternity, watching the mountain carry Fíli away. Then he lunged, reaching for the elder prince's hand, but he had waited too long, and he knew even as he reached that he would never make it. He saw Fíli's eyes widen and the color drain from his face as Kíli lost his balance, skidding on the wet path. Then a hand clamped on his arm and yanked him back, slamming him into the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of his chest.

“What is happening?” he demanded, wheezing for air.

“Giant,” Trisk answered shortly from the other side of his sister. “They're on one.”

And Kíli realized that he was right. Almost half of the now-separated Company stood on a ledge that marked one of the knees of a third giant as it extracted itself from the side of the mountain and joined in the raging battle. The massive creature took a step and the Dwarves clung desperately to the rock. A flung boulder struck their giant and it staggered, and Kíli watched in horror as another thrown boulder took the giant's head off completely. The body stumbled and only Viska's death grip on his coat kept Kíli from lunging for his brother as the leg holding the rest of the Company passed by them. Fíli, Bofur, Dwalin, Ori, Nori, Bilbo, Bombur, _Fíli_! A fleeting glimpse of pale faces, and then they were gone. The headless body slammed into the mountainside ahead of him, just beyond the next outcropping, and then it was falling, tumbling into the depths of the pass. There was no sign of the Dwarves.

Kíli was screaming into the wind, and he could hear his uncle's deep voice bellowing in denial as he moved forward, fighting toward where they would have fallen. An icy finger had touched his heart. Fíli couldn't be dead. He couldn't. Any moment now, his brother would pop around the outcropping, laughing at his splendid joke, and all would be well, because -

“THEY'RE ALIVE!!”

The relieved call filtered back through the Company and Kíli felt his knees nearly give out as he leaned against Viska. The Dwarf lass was patting his arm and it sounded suspiciously like she might be sobbing a little behind her scarf, but he could not tell tears from rain in the storm. He clasped her arm in thanks and nodded at Trisk when the silversmith offered him a small smile. They hurried along after the others, only to pause a moment later when voices were once more raised in alarm. Kíli tensed, but Trisk was listening to the shouts and he shook his head.

“Bilbo. Almost fell. Thorin's got him up, but he's not been polite about it.”

Kíli sighed. Thorin had been impatient with the Hobbit since the day he had joined the Company, and it had only gotten worse when the burglar so clearly enjoyed their time in Rivendell. The young prince rather liked Bilbo, himself, but he was also anxious to get to his brother.

“They've found a cave,” Trisk reported a moment later. Then they were moving forward again, Kíli stepping on Viska's heels in his anxiety to see Fíli for himself. Finally, he rounded the outcropping and Fíli was standing in the rain, waiting for him, alive and whole. Kíli threw himself at his brother with a cry of relief, pressing their foreheads together for a long moment before Trisk grabbed both of them and shoved them into the cave.

The four young Dwarves dropped their gear in the first open area that they found, being the last ones inside. Kíli stripped off his hood and rain cape eagerly, shaking the excess water from his hair, to his companions' irritation. Disappointed by Thorin's refusal to let Glóin start a fire, he dug into his pack for a blanket, hoping that it hadn't gotten soaked. Within a few minutes, he was huddled next to Fíli under both of their blankets, swapping out snacks of dried fruit and salted meat with Trisk and Viska, the latter two also snug beneath their shared blankets. The rest of the Company was doing much the same, sitting in their family groups as they shared heat and tried to dry off as best they could without a fire. Thorin sat in the depths of the cave, talking quietly with Balin, who seemed to be urging him to wait for Gandalf to rejoin them before they moved on. Bilbo sat miserably in a small alcove across from the young Dwarves, digging through his pack for something to eat. He looked up, startled, when Viska crawled over to hand him a handful of dried apple and pat him on the shoulder. He managed a wan smile and nodded to her as she returned to her seat. Trisk offered the Halfling a small smile and tossed him a hard biscuit.

“Thank you for catching my little brother, Visk,” Fíli murmured, reaching up to muss Kíli's damp hair. “He'd be a bit hard to replace.”

Trisk chuckled as Viska signed back briefly. “Maybe the four of us should just take the 'thank yous' as a given,” he commented quietly. “We spend half of our time saving one another's hides.”

 

* * *

 

“WAKE UP!!”

Thorin's bellow had Fíli reaching for a weapon before he was even fully awake, the instinctive response drilled into him over long years of weapon and survival training. In this instance, however, it was no help, for what good is a weapon when the world drops out from under you? Even as the young Dwarf started to his feet, the floor of the cavern gave way and he was falling into darkness. He could barely see as he slid through a twisting tunnel in the rock – even to Dwarf eyes, there was barely enough light to make out other tumbling bodies around him. His ears were more useful, as none of his companions were quiet as they fell. Thorin and Dwalin were bellowing in rage, and the panicked yelps were probably Ori and Bilbo. Kíli was shouting for him, Trisk for Visk...

…and then the fall was over and he had landed on filthy rags in a massive cave lit with flickering torches. The rest of the Company landed in a pile and Fíli was crushed under half a dozen of his friends, and long, clawed fingers were reaching for them.

 

* * *

 

_Viska heard Thorin yell, and she felt the ground drop out from beneath her. She fell, she slid, she ended up in a pile of angry Dwarves (and one Hobbit). She struggled to her feet, searching for her brother, her friends – and she saw the Goblins...leering, reaching, grasping...and her mind fled to the safety of oblivion._


	9. In the Depths of the Mountains

 Goblins. Of course it would be Goblins because, obviously, the quest was getting boring. The wiry, grotesque monstrosities were everywhere and the Dwarves were outnumbered and overwhelmed. They fought anyway, of course – all except one. Struggling with his own captors, Fíli caught sight of a still figure pressed against the back of the pen into which they had fallen. Leaf green eyes stared without seeing and she resisted without fighting, frozen and unresponsive as the Goblins tried to march her down the walkway.

_Goblins_. Fíli swore under his breath and redoubled his efforts, trying to reach Viska's side, but the twisted creatures surrounded him and he couldn't see anyone. But if they were able to move him against his will, they had probably gotten her moving as well. He could hear several of the others protesting as they were pushed down a rickety wooden walkway.

They finally came to a halt, bunched up on a large wooden platform, surrounded by a constantly-shifting swarm of Goblins. Thorin and Kíli wore matching glowers, staring at the loathsome creature before them from under dark brows. Dwalin had lodged himself in front of both his king and his brother. Fíli tried to work his way up to Kíli's side, but the sharp Goblin dagger that was suddenly pressed against his throat discouraged him. The Great Goblin stared at them, a vast being of excess flesh, covered in boils, warts, and filth.

“My, my, my, what have we here?” he crooned. “Where did you find these lovely gifts?”

A sneering sycophant of a Goblin stepped forward. “On the front porch, they was. Made themselves right to home!”

The creature's eyes flickered over them.

“And what would Dwarves being doing in these parts. A bit far North for another attempt to reclaim your precious Moria. What is your errand, then?”

The Dwarves stared back, silent. The Goblin smiled.

“If they won't talk, we'll make them squawk! Bring out the Mangler! Bring out the Bone Breaker! Start with the youngest!”

Fíli lunged for his brother, yanking Kíli behind him as the younger prince growled in protest. He could see Dori and Nori moving to shield Ori from the Goblins' eyes as well, united in this as in nothing else. Trisk moved slightly, edging Kíli behind him, next to the still unresponsive Viska. The Great Goblin's bulging eyes darted from face to face, a smug smile crawling across his own.

“That one,” he finally croaked, extending a blunt, filthy finger to point at Ori. Goblins surged forward, twisted hands reaching for the young scribe. Fíli snarled and knocked them away, joining the lad's older brothers in defending him.

“WAIT.”

Thorin's bellow brought immediate silence as the exiled king stepped out from behind Dwalin. The big warrior stirred in protest, but Thorin waved him back, steely gaze fixed on the massive Goblin. The creature's leering grin simply got wider.

“Well, well, well, look who it is,” he crooned. “Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain.” He gave a mocking bow, then fixed Thorin with his bulbous eyes. “Or should it be King Without a Mountain?” A crafty expression crept across the Great Goblin's face. “I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head,” he commented softly. “Just your head – nothing attached. Perhaps you know of whom I speak? An old enemy of yours? A pale Orc astride a white Warg?”

Fíli's blood turned to ice, and Kíli's hand clamped on his arm painfully. Was it possible? Could the Defiler still live? Was that the explanation for the Orcs hunting them, the pale Orc was still seeking to destroy the line of Durin? Thorin was shaking his head.

“Azog the Defiler was destroyed,” he growled. “I cut him down myself.”

A gurgling, choking sound emerged from the Great Goblin's throat and Fíli realized with revulsion that he was laughing.

“Oh, so you think his defiling days are done, do you?” He turned to a gnarled little creature nearby. “Send word to the pale Orc. Tell him I have found his prize.”

The tiny monstrosity giggled and hurried off, and the grotesque Goblin turned back to the Company.

“In the meantime, how shall we amuse ourselves? Bring that one to me,” he ordered suddenly. The golden prince's back stiffened and he braced himself to fight, only to have the Goblins reach past him and grab -

“Kíli! No!”

He launched himself at the creatures, struggling to free his brother. Trisk had his arms wrapped around the archer's shoulders, trying to hold him back, but the Goblins were producing bone-tipped whips and laying about them with vigor. Exposed skin was sliced and blood drawn, and Kíli was suddenly restrained before the Great Goblin, brown eyes dark with fury as he glared. Fíli's arm was twisted up behind his back, twinging in warning as he continued to fight. Trisk was on his knees, head in his hands after a solid blow from the hilt of a heavy sword. Dwalin and Thorin were being held by five or six Goblins each as the Great Goblin studied the younger prince.

“Oh yes,” he chuckled. “Look at that glower. Definitely one of the heirs. And as for the other....” he surveyed the remainder of the Company once more, dismissing the older Dwarves and motioning for the young ones to be brought forward. Fíli could feel Thorin's eyes boring into the back of his head as he raised his chin defiantly. There was a spike of terror as the Goblin's gaze lit curiously on Viska, but he moved on to Trisk, then Ori. Then the muddy brown eyes were on Fíli and he stared back with ice in his gaze.

“And this would be the brother.”

Goblins yanked the elder prince to the side to join the archer, who had renewed his struggles when Fíli was identified. A whip cracked and the tip lashed across Fíli's face, narrowly missing his eye, and he hissed in pain. Kíli went still, face stricken, as Thorin roared in protest.

“I am the one with the bounty!” their uncle bellowed, dislodging half of the Goblins holding him as he lunged forward. “Leave them alone!”

“Now why would I want to do that?” the Great Goblin laughed. “It doesn't sound like nearly as much fun. I think we'll start with - “

A Goblin's shriek interrupted his musing and metal clattered on the wooden walkway as one of the creeping monstrosities threw Orcrist down. The Great Goblin turned, eyes narrowed, then screamed with rage when he saw the blade, half out of its sheath.

“I know that sword! It is the Goblin Cleaver! The Biter, the blade that sliced a thousand necks! Lash them, beat them, kill them! Kill them all! Cut off his head!”

The Goblins went mad, lashing out indiscriminately, slashing at the prisoners with blade and whip, fist and foot. Fíli lurched toward his brother, trying to shield him from the attack, and a great white light filled his vision, sending a vibration through the cavern that unbalanced Dwarf and Goblin alike. Then there was darkness and silence and confusion, until a tall figure with a gleaming sword appeared.

 

“FIGHT!”

Gandalf's bellow stirred the Dwarves to action and they began snatching weapons from where the Goblins had piled them and sharing them out. Fíli grabbed what knives he could find, accepted his twin falchions from Nori, and then snatched up a familiar slender sword and matching long knife, which he shoved into Viska's strengthless hands. She was a still spot in a flurry of activity and he suddenly realized that her eyes were glassy with shock. Grabbing the knife back, he stowed it hastily in his own coat, then pressed the young lass's hands firmly around the hilt of her sword. She did not react. Kíli jostled him as the young archer took out a Goblin aiming for the swordsman's throat, but Fíli fixed summer blue eyes on Viska's face and leaned in to her ear, hating himself for what he was about to do, and praying that it would work.

“Fight or die, Viska, daughter of Kulvik! These Goblins know your secret! Do you know what they will do to you? Fight! We cannot carry you out of here! If you cannot fight, we must leave you behind!”

Sense flooded back into her eyes, followed by terror, then cold determination. Of course she knew what they would do. Hadn't they tried before? Fíli was knocked aside as she sprang forward, charging into the fray, sword flashing in the torchlight. Kíli flashed her a surprised look, then fell in beside her, fighting their way through to join the rest of the Company. A snarl next to him drew Fíli's attention and he glanced over to see Trisk glaring at him in fury, eyes promising retribution for what had been said to his sister. Fíli nodded in acceptance – he'd gladly pay the price for the only thing that had motivated her to fight. Now, if they could just get all of them out of Goblin Town in one piece.

 

In later days, Fíli would not be able to remember much of the flight through the tunnels. His focus narrowed to the path in front of him, the Goblins at the end of his blades, and the quick glimpses to keep the rest of the Company in sight. Directly in front of him, Viska and Kíli moved in unison, their individual blades sweeping through the Goblin ranks in a dance of steel. Kíli's swings were slightly more powerful and skilled, while Viska's were swifter and more agile – together, they cleared the path ahead. Behind him, Triskel played rearguard, his mace meeting any foe that crept up from behind. Fíli himself focused on those crawling up the sides, for the Goblins were able to climb spider-like, clinging to stone walls. His twin falchions in hand, the golden-haired prince spun, stabbed, and slashed to keep the enemy off their flanks. His ears were filled with the shrieks of the Goblins, the clash of steel, the meaty thud of steel cutting flesh, and Kíli's occasional exhilarated cry of defiance.

Dwarves were not a peaceful race – their history was full of war and conflict, from ancient days to the battle for Khazâd-dûm. Most of the other races saw their constant preparation for battle as a preference for it, a constant seeking. Fíli could not deny that there was something freeing in losing himself to the rhythm of combat, letting his instincts take over and utilizing his hard-won skill with the blades. He knew his brother felt much the same, though Kíli found his solace with the bow. But they did not live for the fight, not like some of their folk did. In his heart, Fíli sought peace. He was willing to fight for it, to defend his friends and kin, take back his people's home, but in the end, he wanted to help his uncle lead the Dwarves of Erebor into a new age of prosperity. Until then, he would fight. He would be the consummate warrior, defending his brother, his uncle, and his companions against whatever foe.

Fíli nearly ran into his brother as Kíli skidded to a halt. They had finally rejoined the rest of the Company, and he could see Gandalf's tall form ahead, standing defiant before the Great Goblin. Then Glamdring flashed in the torchlight and the grotesque creature fell, tearing lose the bridge on which they stood. Shoving his swords back in the dual sheath, Fíli lunged for the nearest handhold, wrapping an arm around a broken wooden support. He could see the others doing the same as they plunged into the depths of the Misty Mountains.

 

* * *

 

Trisk scrambled free of the wooden debris, eyes searching frantically for Viska. Kíli's urgent digging through the pile quickly uncovered her gray hood, next to the golden braids of the elder prince. Together, the two friends hauled their siblings free of the wreckage. Fíli staggered to his feet, blue eyes turning instantly to the slighter Dwarf as she swayed and tried to focus. Trisk grabbed his sister by the shoulders and peered into her face.

“Visk?”

Finally, she nodded and whispered a quiet response. “I'm alright. Just dizzy.”

He nodded and turned to help the others to their feet. It was Kíli that glanced up and spotted the horde of Goblins swarming down the sides of the cavern.

“Gandalf!”

The wizard shot a quick look up, his face grim.

“We need to get outside. They will not follow us under the sun. Quickly, move!”

Trisk did not need to be told twice. Grabbing Viska by the arm, he started down the tunnels in the direction Gandalf had pointed.

 

The flight through the Goblin tunnels was a nightmare, and it was not just due to the darkness and their pursuers. Trisk could not shake the feeling that Viska was not entirely sane. She moved with Kíli, sword ready, but there was a cold light in her eyes that was unlike anything the young Dwarrow had ever seen – especially in his spirited sister.

Her earlier terror had not escaped him. He had been moving to protect her before the clawed hands even reached for them. He hadn't yet known what they faced, but he had known that nothing good came of trap doors that opened into the bowels of the mountains. Then he had seen the Goblins, and felt her muscles lock into place under his hand. Her eyes had been vacant, nothing visible of his beloved sister. He had been the one to make her move, murmuring into her ear, terrified that her continued passive resistance would cause the Goblins to investigate too closely, or simply kill her out of hand. So he had urged her forward, hating himself every step of the way, then had done his best to keep her out of sight and mind of the Great Goblin. He, too, had felt that bolt of terror when they were all pushed forward, and had been about to volunteer himself as the other heir when Fíli was pulled aside.

Cold fury had washed through him when the elder prince threatened her so callously, but he could not deny the result. Viska had been a force of nature as they plowed through the Goblin ranks, she and Kíli an unstoppable team as they cleared the walkway. Never had Trisk seen her fight so fiercely, or so carelessly. Against more skilled foes, she would have been dead a hundred times over, but the Goblins were cowards, used to overpowering their prisoners quickly, without the need to fight, using overwhelming numbers. Against a Dwarf lass who fought like she had nothing left to lose, and three lads determined to protect her at all costs, they had not stood a chance.

But now there were no more Goblins to fight, and the fell look lingered in the green eyes – a lost, haunted look that made his heart ache. It was so similar to the one that had taken days to fade after the attack in Emyn Uial – he could only hope that she would recover more quickly this time. At least she was moving, keeping pace with the rest of the Company, sword in hand. Kíli remained at her side, brown eyes wary when he glanced at her. Fíli was not so obvious about it, with Trisk glowering at him, but the silversmith could not help but notice that the elder prince only held one of his swords, the other tucked away in the scabbard. Every time Viska stumbled or faltered, a leather-gloved hand was there to steady her and urge her on.

And so the Company of Thorin Oakenshield fled through the Goblin tunnels of the Misty Mountains, following Gandalf the Gray toward the faint hint of fresher air, unaware that they were missing the smallest member of their party. For Bilbo Baggins had slipped even farther into the depths of the mountains, and was having an unsettling adventure of his own.

 

* * *

 

_Tunnels filled with oozing growths and gnawed bones; a pallid, emaciated figure with lamp-like eyes. Riddles in the dark. A mysterious golden ring lost and found. Bilbo did not question his invisibility when the ring slipped on his finger, but simply seized his chance and followed the creeping thing toward the exit, just in time to see the wizard leading the others to the freedom of the outside world. Gollum was between the Hobbit and the Company, and Bilbo drew his sword, only to find himself overcome with pity as he stared down at the wretched creature. Without really knowing why, he took a running start and leaped from stone to stone until he could jump over the Ring's previous owner. He ran down the tunnels after his friends, Gollum's shrieks echoing in his ears._

_“Thief!! Baggins! We hates it FOREVER!!”_

 

* * *

 

Triskel practically shoved Viska out of the Goblin tunnels and down the sloping mountainside after the rest of the Company, the princes just ahead of them. He could see Gandalf's tall form ahead, moving through the trees as he urged the Dwarves out into the sunlight and farther from the loathsome caverns. The group finally began to slow, and the silversmith could hear the wizard counting as they caught up.

“Bifur, Bofur – that's ten. Fíli, Kíli – twelve. Trisk, Visk – fourteen...and Bombur! That makes fifteen Dwarves!” Then his eyes narrowed and he looked around quickly. “But where is Bilbo? Where is our Hobbit?”

Trisk glanced around, suddenly realizing that he did not remember the last time he had seen the burglar. Dwalin swore loudly.

“Curse the Halfling! Now he's lost?”

“I thought he was with Dori,” Glóin spoke up. The leather-worker shook his head furiously.

“Don't blame me!”

Gandalf sighed. “Well, where did you last see him?”

“I think I saw him slip away when they first collared us,” Nori offered reluctantly. Gandalf focused on the thief.

“But what happened, exactly?” he demanded. “Tell me!”

“I'll tell you what happened!” Thorin broke in, his voice little more than a growl. “Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it. He's thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door.”

Trisk stared at the dark-haired leader, knowing that the words made sense, but unable to believe it in his heart. Yes, the burglar had been ill-at-ease for much of their journey (no thanks to Thorin himself), but he had seemed to be adjusting recently, settling in. Visk met his eyes with concern.

_He would never make it back alone. How would he escape the tunnels?_

Thorin shook his head. “We will not be seeing our Hobbit again. He is long gone.”

“No. He isn't.”

The soft voice dropped into the silence as a small figure approached them from the cover of the trees. Trisk felt his heart unclench, and he saw Visk's face light up. Gandalf had a relieved smile, and Kíli's grin reached from ear to ear.

“Bilbo Baggins,” the old wizard murmured. “I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life.”

“We'd given you up!” the young archer laughed. Fíli's eyes had narrowed in confusion.

“How on earth did you get past the Goblins?”

“How indeed?” Dwalin growled.

Bilbo hesitated, one hand fiddling at the pocket of his waistcoat, and Trisk felt a frisson of fear go down his spine. Something had happened. Something that the Hobbit did not want to share, and that Trisk wasn't sure that he wanted to know. Gandalf seemed to sense it as well, as he cleared his throat to break the tense silence.

“Well, what does it matter?” he asked with slightly forced cheer. “He's back.”

“It matters,” Thorin insisted, fixing intense blue eyes on the burglar. “I want to know. Why did you come back?”

Bilbo stared at him for a long moment before his face relaxed into lines of sympathy and fondness. “Look, I know you doubt me,” he replied softly. “I know you always have. And you're right, I often think of Bag End. I miss my books. And my armchair. And my garden. See, that's where I belong. That's home. And that's why I came back...because you don't have one. A home. It was taken from you.” His eyes flickered around the Company, meeting each gaze in turn. “But I will help you take it back, if I can.”

Trisk felt his chest tighten as Viska stepped closer, leaning into his shoulder. The look in Thorin's eyes was hard to define – a blend of sorrow, affection, and awe. Balin's glistened with unshed tears, and even Dwalin looked slightly touched by the Hobbit's words.

And then a feral howl rose behind them and Thorin's head snapped around.

“Out of the frying pan...”

“And into the fire,” Gandalf finished. “RUN!”

 

There was nowhere to run. Dashing wildly through the trees, they found themselves trapped on a cliff with sheer edges, dotted with tall pines. Thorin froze, his eyes darting frantically before giving the order.

“Up into the trees, all of you! MOVE!”

They scattered. Kíli swung himself into the closest tree, reaching down to hoist his brother up behind him. Trisk boosted Viska into another, then turned to watch the others climb. Gandalf was at the very edge of the cliff, while Thorin, Balin, and Dwalin perched awkwardly in a nearby tree. Dori and Ori were together, sharing a perch with Bofur, while Nori had ended up following Bifur and the impressively agile Bombur. Glóin helped Óin up quickly, then followed his brother. That left only....

Bilbo.

A bounding Warg had passed the Hobbit, landing between him and the rest of the Company. Kíli yelled a protest and Trisk started back, already knowing he was too late, as the creature lunged for the Halfling. Bilbo's reaction was half instinct, half training as he drew his little sword and held it in front of him, letting the Warg impale itself. Kíli whooped and Trisk relaxed, and the burglar fought to get his sword free of the beast's skull. Then he was moving again, and Trisk watched Dori reach down to haul him to the relative safety of the trees. The Warg pack was approaching, and the silversmith followed his sister up into the branches, staring down at the snapping, snarling creatures and their laughing Orc riders.

_We're trapped. There is nowhere else to go_ , he thought in despair. _We're safe for the moment, but there are too many. We cannot fight them._

Then a sudden silence came over the Orc pack and the night went still as a new figure approached. Trisk's heart stopped. A massive pale Orc, scarred and maimed, the left hand replaced by a cruel metal claw, astride a white Warg. He glanced through the trees at Thorin, only to find the exiled king's eyes transfixed in horror, the color draining from his face. His voice was little more than a whisper, but it carried in the still evening air.  
“Azog...no, it cannot be.”

 

* * *

 

Azog the Defiler was alive.

Thorin Oakenshield stared, unwilling to believe the evidence of his own eyes. How was it possible? He had severed the beast's arm himself, hacking it off at the Battle of Azanulbizar. He had seen the pale Orc dragged away, but had never imagined that his wound would have been tended. Orcs did not behave that way. The injured were weak, and the weak were prey. He had seen them devour their own dead, torture their own wounded. It made no sense for them to have dragged one of their own to safety and tended his wounds.

Yet here he was, blue eyes gleaming in the ash-pale face, body covered with the ritualized scars. He did indeed ride a white Warg, one of the largest the Dwarf had ever seen, and his missing hand had been replaced with a cruel, three-pronged claw of metal that had been jammed into the stump of his arm. The smug sneer on his face was the closest an Orc could manage to a smile, and he was speaking to his underlings in Black Speech, of which Thorin knew only some basic words. Enough to recognize the word for 'fear,' followed by his own name and that of his father. And then the order to kill his companions.

He had been wrong. For so many years, he had believed the Defiler dead, the descendents of Durin safe from his mad vendetta. And now here he stood, alive and eager for blood, and Thorin had brought his heirs, his beloved sister-sons, within the monster's grasp. The one good thing was that Azog seemed to have noticed only him. The Great Goblin might have picked out the lads from their resemblance to him, but the pale Orc was focused on Thorin. So long as he could keep it that way, Fíli and Kíli stood a chance. Even if the Company was overwhelmed, better to die quickly at the hands of the other Orcs than to be revealed to Azog as the heirs of Durin and survive even a day as his prisoners. Though he would prefer to keep them alive – all of them, his steadfast Company. He was hoping that Gandalf might have a trick or two up his sleeve, but the Dwarf king would not rely on the wizard – even the Istari had limits.

Time had slowed to a crawl as Thorin and Azog stared at one another, one in shock, the other in smug triumph. The Wargs were attacking, hurling themselves at the trees, snapping at the branches, trying to knock the Dwarves to the ground. He could see his nephews clinging to the boughs of their tree as it swayed and shook under the impact of a Warg's weight. He heard one of them yell in surprise as the tree began to tilt, borne over by the beast's tireless attacks. His heart lurched in his chest, then resumed its steady beat as two figures, one dark and the other fair, hurled themselves into the nearest tree just before their own crashed to the forest floor. Trisk and Visk were there to catch them, but this tree, too, was beginning to lean, so the four lads were already moving. They split up, leaping into trees farther out on the cliff. But Wargs were at all of the trees, lunging up in the hopes of catching a dangling boot. Thorin and Balin soon had to move as well, the entire Company moving ever closer to the edge – to the proverbial corner where there would be nowhere left to run. And then, they would die. They would fight, but they were sorely outnumbered, exhausted, and injured.

One last leap, and the Dwarf king realized that the Company was together once more, in the tallest tree on the absolute edge of the cliff. Gandalf was summoning fire, passing flaming pine cones down for the Dwarves to hurl. While there was something supremely satisfying about setting fire to a Warg and sending it yelping and screaming with such an innocuous weapon, it would not be enough. At best, it would buy them some time. At worst, they might be roasted alive by their own cleverness. Something had to be done.


	10. To the Heights

The forest was burning. Viska clung to the trunk of the massive pine tree with one hand and flung a fiery pine cone with the other. Around her, the rest of the Company cheered and whooped as the snarls turned to yelps of fear and pain and the Orcs tried to control the scorched Wargs. But the damage was done. The tree was overloaded with fifteen Dwarves, a Hobbit, and a wizard, and the grip of its roots on the ground was weakened by the repeated assaults of the fire and their enemies. It groaned, and then it toppled, the roots barely enough to keep it from plummeting over the side of the cliff. Whoops were replaced by startled yells as the Dwarves lost their footing, grabbing desperately for handholds. Viska found herself astride a large branch, clinging for dear life. She had lost track of Trisk since splitting up in the flight from their first roost, but she could see Thorin, Balin, Bilbo, and Fíli, and she could hear Kíli. A sudden panicked cry caught her attention as Ori lost his grip and dropped, just managing to catch hold of Dori's ankles as he fell. His elder brother yelped, scrabbling for purchase as they both slid toward the void.

“Mister Gandalf! Help!”

The wizard lunged with his staff and Dori seized it, hanging on with all of his considerable strength.

“Thorin! No!”

Balin's cry made Viska's stomach churn with fear and she turned, sweeping her hood back to clear her vision. Thorin had climbed onto the trunk of the fallen tree and was marching toward Azog with unwavering intent. Orcrist shone in one hand, the famous oak shield gripped in the other, sapphire eyes locked on the pale Orc. Dwalin was bellowing in protest, clawing his way up only to have his branch break beneath him and nearly drop him over the side. The Dwarf lass stared in horror as the king charged the Defiler alone, focused only on his foe, as his nephews and oldest friends struggled to follow him.

At the Battle of Azanulbizar, a young Dwarf prince had defied the odds and grievously wounded the gigantic Gundabad Orc. This time, the Orc rode a massive Warg and the Dwarf never stood a chance. The white Warg sent Thorin sprawling before he ever reached Azog, lunging at the king with huge paws and knocking him on his back, where he lay fighting to recover his breath. Viska bit her lip, fighting a scream as the beast clamped powerful jaws around the Dwarf's midsection and shook him like a dead rat before tossing him aside contemptuously. Thorin came to rest close to the cliff's edge, Orcrist skittering from his nerveless fingers. Azog gave an order in Black Speech and one of his minions approached the heir of Durin, grinning. Viska did not understand the twisted language, but the intent was all too clear.

She scrambled to her feet, reacting without thought or hesitation, every fiber of her being screaming at her to protect her king. She ran forward, boots skidding on the precariously tilted trunk of the tree, slender sword in hand. Just as she reached solid ground, a smaller figure brushed by her and she stared, momentarily frozen in shock as she watched the Hobbit plow into the side of the Orc that loomed over Thorin. Caught by surprise, the beast staggered and fell, scuffling with the burglar on the ground. Viska lunged forward, unsure if she was rushing to the king or the Halfling, but determined that she had to help. Then Bilbo was astride the Orc's chest, his small Elvish blade buried deep in its throat. A hoarse triumphant shout escaped her as he wrenched it free and staggered to his feet, standing over Thorin defensively. The Dwarf lass made it to his side as the Warg riders approached, their mounts snarling viciously and the Orcs drawing cruel, jagged blades.

“DU BEKAR!!”

The Dwarven battle cry rang out over the growls and harsh cries, followed by a fair figure and dark joining the fray. Fíli's twin falchions flashed in the firelight, hamstringing mounts and riders alike as he darted through whatever openings he could find. Kíli's blade made deadly arcs, slicing through Warg throats and Orc limbs. Dwalin was right behind the princes, Grasper and Keeper tearing into the nearest enemy. And the auburn-haired figure behind the warrior was Trisk, a two-handed grip on his mace as he threw his weight into a powerful blow that knocked a heavy Orc sprawling. The Warg that it had been riding lunged for Bilbo, jaws gaping, and Viska knocked the Hobbit out of the way. Bracing herself against the weight, she drove her sword into the top of the beast's mouth at an angle, seeking the brain. The Warg yelped, spasmed, and went still, its forward momentum forcing the Dwarf lass to wrench her blade free as she dove clear. Her tumble took her underneath another beast and she seized the opportunity to rake the blade across the soft belly, disemboweling it as she scrambled free. Staggering to her feet, she looked around, trying to get her bearings, and saw the pale Orc advancing on the small group of desperate warriors. Forcing her tired legs to move, she ran to join her brother, back to back with the heirs of Durin as the Orcs closed in. They knew they did not stand a chance – there were simply too many of the Orcs – but they would not sell their lives cheaply.

The piercing cry of a massive bird of prey broke over them and Viska glanced skyward to see the night full of huge golden-brown Eagles, eyes bright with reflected fire. Some were diving and grabbing Orcs and Wargs, tossing them aside or dropping them over the cliffs. Others pushed burning trees down on on the attackers, or fanned the flames with huge wings. As the Orcs and Wargs retreated, snarling in frustration and rage, the Eagles changed their focus, swooping low to close gentle talons around members of the Company. Viska stood, mesmerized, as Thorin was carefully scooped from the edge of the cliff, the oak shield slipping from his arm. Seized with a sudden urgency, she lunged for it, snatching the shield up just as claws closed over her shoulders. She swallowed a scream as she was carried high into the air, then released, dropping a short distance to a broad feathered back. Trisk landed just behind her, clamping anxious hands onto the great Eagle's feathers.

 

* * *

 

_Azog watched them go, blood boiling with fury. Once more, the line of Durin had slipped his grasp, carried away in the talons of the detested Eagles. This pack of his followers was decimated and scattered, lost to the wizard's fire and the birds of prey. But the confrontation had not been a total waste. Oakenshield had been broken, and his fall had brought out the hidden heirs. Light and dark, they had raced to their king's aid, exposing their ties to him and sealing their fates. Thorin son of Thráin was no longer the pale Orc's primary target. It would be far more satisfying to let him watch his kin suffer first._

 

* * *

 

Bofur, son of Forbur, had certainly not expected to end this day (or any other, for that matter) clinging to the back of a Great Eagle, trying to get his cousin to _sit down, for Mahal's sake, before_ _you_ _plummet to_ _y_ _ou_ _r_ _death!_ But there he was, one hand clapped to his hat to keep it from flying off, the other buried in golden feathers as he stared wide-eyed at Middle Earth spread out beneath his feet like an intricate map. Behind him, fire raged on the mountainside, while the air around him was filled with the Eagles, each carrying one or two members of the Company. He could see his brother clinging to one, eyes squeezed shut in terror – Bombur had never had much of a head for heights. Dori and Ori had apparently been rescued when they fell, and Nori was off to his left. Fíli and Kíli shared a bird, of course, as did Trisk and Visk. The light of the moon illuminated Fíli's concerned face as the young prince called out to his uncle. Bofur sobered abruptly, remembering Thorin's still figure on the ground in front of Azog, surrounded by flame, as the burglar stood over him with his tiny Elven blade. Squinting, the miner could just make out the limp form cradled in an Eagle's claws far ahead.

 

* * *

 

Kíli barely resisted the urge to throw himself from the Eagle's back before it touched down on the great rock ledge. He could see Thorin lying still on the stone, battered and bloodied, and the dark prince cursed himself for not going to his uncle's aid sooner. Finally, the great bird landed and he slid off of its back, his brother on his heels. Gandalf was already crouched over Thorin, one hand on his forehead, eyes closed as he spoke arcane words under his breath. Bilbo hovered at the wizard's side, watching anxiously. The others were being dropped off one by one, reuniting with family and checking each other over, but eventually all eyes turned to the king.

And, after an eternity, the deep sapphire eyes opened and Durin's heir took a deep, painful breath. Kíli moved to help him to his feet, Dwalin joining him, but Thorin resisted at first.

“The Halfling?” he demanded. “Where is he?”  
“It's alright,” Gandalf assured him. “Bilbo is here. He is quite safe.”

Only then did Thorin allow them to pull him to his feet, shaking them off once he was standing. There was a fierce look on his face as he advanced on the bewildered Halfling. The young prince felt Fíli tense beside him, brows furrowed in confusion, and Trisk was nearly glaring as their leader strode forward. Viska was still and inscrutable.

“You! What were you doing?” Thorin demanded, cornering the Hobbit on the edge of the cliff. “You nearly got yourself killed! Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the Wild? That you had no place amongst us?”  
Poor Bilbo looked as though he wanted to disappear. Kíli knew he was glaring at his uncle, angry over his treatment of the one who had saved his life. Then Thorin took a final step forward and threw his arms around the astonished burglar, pulling him into a crushing hug.

“Never have I been so wrong in all my life. I am sorry I doubted you.”

Kíli relaxed and heard his brother chuff in amusement next to him. Bilbo simply smiled.

“No, I would have doubted me, too,” he countered earnestly. “I'm not a hero, or a warrior. Not even a burglar,” he added, with a sidelong glance at Gandalf. Thorin smiled. The rest of the Company had relaxed and began to pay attention to their surroundings. They were on a massive ledge on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains, overlooking a wide expanse of open land that reached out to a river, another plain, then a wide expanse of forest, and beyond....

“Is...is that what I think it is?” Bilbo asked quietly.

Kíli stared at the distant peak, barely visible at the edge of sight. A warm hand clasped his shoulder and he glanced over to see his brother gazing east.

“Erebor,” Gandalf replied quietly. “The Lonely Mountain. The last of the great Dwarf kingdoms of Middle Earth.”

Thorin smiled. “Our home.”

“It's still so far away,” Ori murmured quietly. “Mister Gandalf? Where exactly are we?”

The wizard smiled.

“You are currently in the eyrie of the Great Eagles, Master Ori. They are led by Gwaihir, the Wind Lord. They are my friends, and they have no love for Orcs, Wargs, or Goblins, so they were happy to assist us.”

“Well, we certainly appreciate the rescue,” Balin commented, raising one bushy eyebrow. “But how exactly are we going to get down from here?”

Gandalf chuckled. “They will carry us a bit further, my dear Balin. In fact, they have offered their hospitality for the night, so we might rest in safety, if that is quite all right with Thorin. On the morrow, they will carry us across the Anduin. They will not risk themselves too near the arrows of Men, but they will save us some walking, and a bit of time.” Thorin nodded in agreement, his eyes still on the distant Mountain.

“Some dinner would not go amiss,” Bombur contributed quietly.

“Hunger, I believe, can be remedied,” the wizard told him, then turned to speak to a magnificent bird that had settled nearby. When he returned, the Dwarves were beginning to settle in comfortably, digging through the few supplies that they had managed to grab and keep through the tunnels and into the trees. There was very little, save their weapons. Kíli joined his brother, a little confused when he realized that they were nearly at the far end of the eyrie from their friends. Trisk had his back to them, but Viska was glancing past him, her eyes flashing as they argued over something. He glanced at Fíli.

“Trisk is angry over what you said in Goblin Town?” he guessed shrewdly. The fair-haired prince nodded, his face troubled and ashamed.

“Of course he is. Can you blame him? I must set this right, even if they cannot forgive me.”

Sighing, he set down his pack and moved slowly toward the siblings. Viska saw him coming and turned her brother with a hand on his shoulder. Kíli saw the auburn-haired Dwarf tense, but Fíli simply ducked his head.

“Would you spare me a moment, Trisk?” he asked humbly. The silversmith stared at him for a long moment, but finally nodded after Viska touched his arm again.

“You can speak to me. Stay away from Visk.”

Fíli nodded and Viska stepped away from her brother, going to sit with her back to the mountain. Kíli thought about joining her, but did not want to antagonize Trisk any further, so he simply nodded to her with a small smile and turned to help Bombur with the fresh game that one of the Eagles had just deposited on the ledge. Bofur was humming merrily to himself as he assisted his brother, and the dark-haired prince smiled.

“I think we're safe enough to risk a song or two, Bof,” he encouraged. The miner's eyes brightened and he grinned, then launched into a cheery tavern tune that soon had the others joining in.

 

* * *

 

Fíli smiled faintly as he heard his brother encouraging Bofur to sing loud enough to protect the coming conversation from prying ears. Then he sighed and turned to meet Trisk's steady glare.

“You threatened to leave her behind,” the other growled.

Fíli nodded. “I did.”

“You deliberately reminded her of what the other Goblins did, what they tried to do, something that I had told you in confidence. You used it against her!”

“I did.”

“What if it hadn't worked? Would you really have left her there? Left _us_ there? I would never have abandoned her.”

“I know. And no, we would have carried her out, but then some of us would not have made it, and she would have hated herself when she realized what had happened.”

“You could have traumatized her even worse. You could have _broken_ her!”

Fíli closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, nodding. “Yes, I could have, but I had to take that chance, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

Trisk took a furious breath and Fíli's eyes snapped open to see his face flushing with fury.

“You would do it again?”

Blue eyes caught hazel and held them without flinching or blinking.

“To save her life, yes. Without a second thought. But know this, Triskel, son of Kulvik – never have I hated myself more than when I had to say those things to your sister. I knew it had to be done, knew it was the only way to get her out of her memories and back in the moment, but I hated it. I still hate it. I hate myself for saying those things to her. But I would do it again if it would save her life.”

Trisk stared at him, shoulders tense, chest heaving with every breath. It may have been moments, or hours, but finally the hazel eyes dropped and Trisk nodded.

“I have no quarrel with you then, my prince, for how can I quarrel with one who seeks only to protect my remaining family?”

 

* * *

 

Thorin was deep in quiet conversation with Balin and Gandalf when the former smiled and nodded at someone just past the king's shoulder. Thorin turned, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw young Visk standing there holding the oak shield. The leader of the Company had thought the shield lost, left behind when the Eagles bore them away from their enemies, but here it was, in the hands of Kulvik's quiet son. Thorin smiled, his intense gaze searching the lad's eyes as he took the shield.

“Before I lost consciousness, I remember seeing you,” he commented quietly, running his hands over the worn wood. “You stood by the burglar against the Orcs. Balin also tells me that you and your brother stood with my nephews against the Warg riders. And now I find that you have salvaged my oaken shield from the field of battle. Mahal smiled on us to bring Triskel and Viskel into the Company for this quest.”

He set the shield aside and stepped forward to place a hand on Visk's shoulder, meeting the dark green eyes. “With every breath, you honor your father's memory. I thank you for all that you have done, and all that you will undoubtedly do before we see the end of this task.”

 

* * *

 

Kíli approached after Trisk moved away, flinching at the sight of the bloody gash on his brother's face. “That mark is my fault. They hit you to control me. I'm sorry, _nadad_.”

“You are hardly responsible for the actions of Goblins, Ki,” the elder prince replied, shaking his head. “If they'd found me first, it would just have happened the other way 'round.”

Kíli snorted. “And you would be apologizing to me, you know that you would.”

His brother smiled. “I'm the big brother. Protection is _my_ job. Anyway, I'll have an interesting scar.”

“You can make all the lasses weep as they consider how close you came to losing that eye,” the archer chortled. “Fíli One-Eye, future King Under the Mountain!”

“You are an idiot.”

“The lasses will adore you. Or, perhaps, there's only one lass now? A particular lass?”

“Kíli? I love you, _nadadith_ , but I _will_ hurt you.”

“That's what I thought. Can I have a matching scar? Seems a waste for you to have the thrilling story and take yourself off of the market. Ow!” he yelped as the elder prince's elbow sank into his side, but Fíli's heart did not seem to be in the lighthearted banter. Kíli stopped, his smile fading, and studied his brother's face. “Fi? Are you alright?”

The golden-haired prince sighed. “Trisk was right. I could have broken her.”

“You meant well.”

“Ah yes, the best of intentions,” Fíli agreed sourly. “And if it hadn't worked? If she had broken, instead of breaking free?”

“Fíli, listen to me,” the dark-haired brother told him earnestly, catching the blue eyes with his own. “Viska is stronger than that, and you know it. That's why you said what you did. You knew it would work, and that it would not destroy her.”

Fíli's eyes were bleak. “Did I? Know it?”

The dark gaze flickered and a cheeky grin flitted across his younger brother's face. “Oh, I think you know a _lot_ of things about Viska, daughter of Kulvik,” he replied. “Whether you are conscious of it or not. Now, don't you think it's time you apologized to _her_?”

 

But Fíli did not get the chance to speak to Viska that night. Óin had just finished tending Thorin's extensive injuries and insisted on seeing to the princes next, smearing salves over the whip cuts and tutting at the one that had nearly taken Fíli's eye.

“Well, you'll have a lovely new scar, lad,” he commented as the elder prince hissed with pain and flinched away slightly. “Still, could have been worse, and the lasses like rugged scars.” Kíli sniggered and Fili swatted at him, then moved to let the healer tend his brother's wounds. Bofur brought them their dinners and Fíli realized how late it had gotten. Most of the others were finishing up their meals and settling in for sleep. Thorin had decided to let all of them sleep the night through, since the Eagles would be on guard. Viska and Trisk were already stretched out next to the side of the mountain, as far from the edge of the eyrie as possible. The golden prince settled himself near his gear and stared out into the night. Kíli had come through the last two days with minimal injury, though Fíli was well aware that that fact was due mainly to the interruptions provided by the discovery of Orcrist and the arrivals of Gandalf and the Eagles. Who knew what tortures the Great Goblin might have had in mind for Thorin's heirs? He shuddered just thinking of it, of being restrained while his little brother suffered under the Goblins' whips and blades. His chest felt tight and his breath hitched as he tried to block the images that streamed into his mind unbidden.

“Fi? Are you alright?”

He opened his eyes to see deep brown ones staring at him in concern. He nodded, letting out a deep sigh as Kíli stretched out next to him.

“I'm fine, Ki. Just...my imagination was running away with me. If Gandalf hadn't arrived when he did...Mahal! When they dropped you in front of that beast, my heart stopped. I can't lose you, _nadadith_.”

Kíli nodded in understanding and leaned in to touch Fíli's forehead with his own. The elder brother closed his eyes again and reminded himself that they were safe – Kíli, Viska, Thorin, the whole Company was safe and mostly well. He finally felt his tense muscles beginning to relax and Kíli pulled away enough to lay down. Fíli followed suit, his exhaustion finally wearing him down.

 

Sunrise woke the Company the next morning, the first rays creeping over their faces. They stretched aching muscles as they prepared to face the new day. Meager belongings were bundled into packs, and a sketchy breakfast was scrounged from the previous night's leftovers before the leader of the Eagles returned to bid them good morning. Gandalf spoke quietly with Gwaihir for a few moments, while Bofur reminded his brother that the massive bird had not dropped him the night before and would not this time, either. Then the Wind Lord lifted away and Gandalf finally settled the matter by summoning the hefty cook to clamber onto the back of a strong young Eagle that appeared on the ledge. The others mounted their birds as the wizard called them over, the Halfling joining him on Gwaihir's back at the last.

The distance that they traveled was not terribly far, as the Eagles fly, but it was quite satisfying for the Dwarves to see the land passing far below without the need to walk each tiring step. They were in good spirits when the great birds dropped them off atop a massive stone pillar on the far side of the Anduin at mid-morning. After a quick bite to eat, they began to make their way down the massive stairs carved into the side of the Carrock (for that was what Gandalf said it was called). The stairs were not carved for Dwarf legs, so it was a long, wearying process to work their way down to the ground. New injuries were gained, and old ones were agitated (Thorin's Warg bite broke open and bled sluggishly), and their earlier high spirits had dropped down around their boots by the time they were safely on the prairie. After consultation with Óin and Gandalf, Thorin decreed that they would go ahead and rest for the night, though it was only the middle of the afternoon.

“I think we can risk a fire, if you are careful with it,” he told Glóin. The merchant nodded, using a knife to carve out a large section of sod for the fire-pit.

“Shall Visk and I hunt? See if we can at least bring back a few rabbits?” Kíli spoke up quickly, eyes sparkling.

Thorin nodded. “Take Fíli with you.”

Kíli nodded and winked at his brother as he dropped his pack. The older prince glanced at Trisk, but the silversmith simply shrugged, apparently willing to let him speak to Viska if she would permit it. Fíli nodded a thanks to the other Dwarf, then turned to join his brother and the silent jeweler as they left the camp.

No sooner were they out of sight and hearing than Kíli turned to the others with a stern look on his face.

“You two need to talk. Now. I'll do the hunting.”

And with that, he disappeared into the trees, moving with the stealth that made him one of the best hunters in Ered Luin. Fíli sighed and met Viska's gaze briefly. The lass had her head cocked curiously, waiting for him to speak, her eyes unreadable. His found the forest floor as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

“I want to apologize. For how I spoke to you in the Goblin cavern. I just...I didn't know how else to get you to move. You were frozen, terrified. I could see every memory of the raid on your village flashing behind your eyes, but you wouldn't move.” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment, then opening them again quickly as the memories rose up. “So, I threatened you. I shouldn't have, but everything was happening so fast that I didn't know what else to do. I thought your brother was going to kill me afterward, and maybe he should have. I understand if you cannot forgive me. What I said, what I did, was loathsome. I want to apologize, nonetheless. Just, please, don't leave the Company. Even if you never want to see me again after, you deserve to be with us when we take back Erebor.”

The last sentences were said in a breathless rush, and he had his gaze fixed on his own hands as he toyed idly with one of his many blades, terrified of the judgment he expected to see in her eyes. After an endless moment, a gentle hand clasped his wrist and he looked up into her face. And for the first time, he could actually _see_ her face. The scarf was pulled away, the gray hood pushed back. The angry scar that ran from her forehead to her right cheek had healed over the past weeks and was beginning to fade, as was a burn scar on the left side of her face. Her chestnut hair was not yet long enough to really braid, but it was soft and wavy, with hints of the auburn of her brother's. Silky dark hair was growing back at the edges of her jaw. The dark bruises of the near strangulation that Trisk had described were long faded, but Fíli couldn't keep from looking for them. Her skin was pale, after so long hidden from the sun, contrasting with the darker skin on her exposed hands. Finally, he was able to see the smile that went with the sparkling humor in her eyes. It was a kind smile, a little sad, but compassionate. Fíli opened his mouth to speak, to apologize again, but she shook her head at him, holding up a hand for silence.

“I forgave you before we ever left the Goblins' tunnels,”she told him. His eyes widened at the sound of her voice, rusty with disuse, barely above a whisper. “You're right, I was frozen, paralyzed. All I could see was the Goblins who attacked my home, reaching for me with dirty claws and lewd smiles. But then you were there, and you were raging for me to defend myself, and I realized that I was not alone. I had you, and my brother, and Kíli, and something snapped. Trisk says I went a little berserk, and that is probably true. I don't remember the battle – I don't remember anything until we ran out into the sunlight, and I knew we were safe. Gandalf was there, and we were safe under the sun, and the sky was the exact shade of your eyes.”

Fíli had just been thinking something similar – that her eyes were the precise color of leaves in shade – and he suddenly realized that he had a rather infatuated smile on his face. Viska met his gaze and he watched the blush creep up her neck to stain her cheeks with red.

“Trisk told me he spoke to you, that he was so enraged by what you had said. I begged him to leave you alone, because I understood, but he is my brother, and my guardian, and he would not leave it. And he came back after, stunned that you had accepted his every chastisement. 'He hates himself for it, Viska,' he told me, 'and yet he said he would do it again if the circumstance required it, to save your life. I don't think I could ever punish him more than he already does himself.' But I already knew that, for I had seen the grief in your eyes even as you said it, looking as though you were ripping your own heart out.”

He felt his face growing warm and realized that he was probably blushing nearly as much as she was. The only thing that could make this moment more nerve-wrenching was -

“Is it safe?”

\- Kíli. Right on time. Fíli closed his eyes and huffed with embarrassment, then opened them again to stare at Viska when he heard her give a throaty chuckle. She smiled at him and his heart stuttered in his chest.

“Have you two kissed and made up yet?”

And the moment was gone. Kíli charged back into the small clearing clutching two fat pheasants. Fíli shook his head and glanced at his brother. The young archer was glancing between them, his dark eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I think life would be much easier if I was an only child,” the elder prince grumbled softly. Kíli smiled cheekily.

“But it would not be nearly as much fun! Now, is everything sorted?”

Viska nodded, tucking her scarf back into placed and pulling her hood up.

“All is well,” she murmured, startling Kíli with the sound of her voice. “I was never angry with your brother, he just did not believe it.”

 


	11. Flight to Dubious Refuge

 The small hunting party found a few more pheasants before they returned to camp, where they handed their catch to a grateful Bombur. Fíli and Kíli joined several of their companions telling tales and jokes, while Viska returned to her brother, unsure of his mood. Trisk's temper of the night before seemed to have evaporated, though, and he simply nodded when she told him that the elder prince had apologized.

“You weren't angry with him anyway. Don't look so surprised, Visk, I know your moods,” he commented with a small smile. “It is over and done.”

 

Dinner was over and Viska was nearly dozing as she leaned back against the base of the Carrock, watching him. Golden braids shone in the flickering fire glow, silver beads tossing off sparks of light. Blue eyes danced with humor as the kind mouth quirked behind the braided mustache. The smoke rising from his pipe carried a robust, homey smell, and when he threw back his head, the rich, rumbling laugh that erupted from his chest made her shiver.

“Visk?”

A concerned voice at her shoulder jolted Viska back to herself and she felt a flush crawling up her neck as she looked at her brother. Amused hazel eyes met green as she fought the impulse to bury her face in her hands. Trisk cocked an eyebrow and cast a look across the fire to where Fíli was joking with his brother and Bofur, then looked back at her. This time, she did bury her face for a moment, trying to disguise it as a need to adjust her scarf and hood.

“You were in your own little world,” he teased quietly. “Something distracting you?”

_Go away._

“Are you sure you don't need any brotherly advice?”

Trisk yelped as she punched him in the side and scrambled to her feet to take her empty bowl over to Glóin. She couldn't help stealing glimpses of the fair-haired prince as she went, and her heart stuttered when he glanced up and caught her eye, smiling broadly.

“Visk! Care to join us?”

She shook her head briefly and hurried back to her seat, settling back against the stone and closing her eyes.

_You're acting like a fool_ , she chided herself in the privacy of her own mind. _He is your friend, nothing more. Don't try to make it more, or you will doom what you have. It's an infatuation, and it will wear off soon. Don't embarrass yourself!_

 

* * *

 

“What'd you do to offend the lad, Fíli?” Bofur asked with a grin as Viska moved away from them through the campsite. The prince shrugged, carefully masking the disappointment that had surged through him when she declined his invitation.

“Maybe he's just tired. Anyway, go on with your story, Bofur.”

The miner needed little encouragement and was soon quietly regaling the group with one of his tall tales. His friend safely occupied, Fíli glanced across the fire.

What little was visible of her face was cast in shadow, only her eyes visible, glinting in the firelight in the moment before she closed them. He had only seen her face the once, but what he did see on a regular basis was engraved in his mind. The deep green eyes, sparkling with humor. The way her eyebrows quirked when she was joking. The scar from the goblin raid that ran from her forehead to her cheek, now healed. The tilt of her head as she listened to him talk. The nimble strength of her hands as they moved through the signs of iglishmêk, or gripped her sword, or dropped a stone into her sling. He had seen her smile now, a sweet curve of lips that lit her entire face, and he treasured that memory even as he hoped to see it again.

“Mahal, brother, you have it bad.”

The soft laughter of his dark-haired pest jolted Fíli out of his reverie and he realized that his eyes had drifted closed, and he had been humming softly to himself as he let his imagination recreate Viska's smile. Most of the Company was still engrossed in Bofur's tale (which sounded like it was drawing to a close), but Kíli's gaze was fixed on his face, a knowing smirk on his lips.

“Who're you thinking about, _nadad_?” he asked teasingly, his voice a bit louder than necessary. “Deka? Or perhaps Nuli? Which Blue Mountains Dwarrowmaid dances in your mind halfway across the world?”

Fíli cocked an eyebrow. His brother knew that he did not care for either of the mentioned lasses. Then he realized that Kíli was nodding subtly toward where Thorin sat, watching them with a small smile. The elder prince snorted and shook his head.

“As if I would tell you,” he growled. “I still remember how you teased me when I winked at Brís.”

“As I recall, you _kissed_ her.”

He rolled his eyes. “On the cheek. Once. And I was drunk.”

Kíli scoffed. “You'd had two ales, you weren't drunk.”

Dwalin guffawed. “He was forty. After two ales, he was drunk,” he corrected.

Fíli blushed as the rest of his companions roared, but he couldn't help sneaking a glance at Viska. Her eyes were open again, and sparkling, the edges crinkled with mirth.

“All right, time for everyone to get some rest,” Thorin announced, quieting the Company. “Fíli, Kíli, you have first watch.”

Fíli nodded and got to his feet, following his brother as he climbed the small hillock that they had marked out as a good vantage point. They settled in, back to back, and gazed out into the darkness, letting their eyes adjust as the others bedded down. The elder prince could feel his brother fidgeting and knew he would be talking soon. Fili smiled into the night.

“Thanks for covering with Thorin,” he murmured, feeling the blush rise to the tips of his ears. Kíli snickered.

“Trisk is going to gut you if you keep staring at her like that. Thorin will be the least of your worries.”

Fíli did not respond, and after a moment, his brother sighed.

“You really do have it bad,” he said softly, leaning back against the elder's shoulders. “It's fun to watch the two of you watch each other.”

A jolt of surprise went through the heir. “Wait, what?”  
  
Kíli covered a bark of laughter with a cough. “You didn't realize? She watches you as much as you watch her. You're just both very careful not to be caught looking.”

Fíli groaned. “Mahal. Trisk really will gut me. He isn't actively angry, but I'm sure that I am not his favorite person since Goblin Town.”

The younger prince shrugged. “I don't know. I think he'll warm up to you again. But I doubt that he is ready to consider you for the role of brother-by-marriage.”

“Wouldn't be his Choice,” Fíli muttered rebelliously, startling even himself. His brother choked on another laugh.

“Don't get ahead of yourself, Fi. First, you two need to be able to look at one another, at the same time.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the snoring chorus of thirteen sleeping Dwarves, a wizard, and a Hobbit.

“I always kind of thought that I would be first,” Kíli commented eventually, a small laugh in his voice.

“First what?”

“First to get teased about a lass. I figured it would be you teasing me mercilessly over a pretty smile, and I would have to wait years for my revenge.”

“Years?” Fíli asked, a bit indignantly.

“Well, you _are_ the cautious one, the one least likely to let his emotions tell his good sense to take a hike. I thought I would do something ridiculous, like fall for an Elf, and Uncle would lock me in a dungeon for the next hundred years.”

Fíli laughed at the image. “What would you even do with an Elf? You're not _that_ tall, _nadadith_.”

Kíli turned to him, wriggling his eyebrows lasciviously, and the golden prince shook his head.

“No, don't try to explain it to me. I do _not_ want those mental pictures!”

His brother laughed and settled back in place, silent for a long moment.

“For what it is worth, if she will have you, I will be happy for you, Fi.”

Fíli's reply was half laugh, half sigh. “Thank you, little brother. I think you're getting a bit ahead of things, but I appreciate the support.”

 

* * *

 

Dawn found the Company waking with grumbles and complaints as they stretched sore muscles and checked two-day-old wounds. Ever-mindful of the Orcs that would be hunting them, Thorin gave them little time to make a breakfast of cold pheasant and then shoulder their packs once more. Setting their faces eastward, toward the distant edge of the forest, they continued their journey. Rearguard that morn had fallen to Kíli and Viska, and the two youngsters were on high alert as the group set out. The lass's throat was feeling better than it had in months, and they were far enough behind their nearest companion (Óin, luckily enough) for her to risk a quiet conversation with the dark-haired prince.

“Kíli?”

“Hmm?” He seemed lost in his own thoughts, but glanced over at the sound of her hesitant voice, concern on his face.  
“Can I ask a question?”

“Certainly.”

“About Fíli?”  
A sparkle lit his dark eyes and he grinned. “Even better! Go ahead.”

Her face flushed behind the scarf as she considered her words. “Does he have a lass back home?” she asked finally, haltingly. “In Ered Luin? Like one of those you mentioned last night?”

Kíli shook his head, eyes darting out over their surroundings. “No. Absolutely not,” he replied firmly. “Nuli is sweet, but she never stops talking. Even worse than me,” he added with a smile as she glanced at him with wide eyes. “She drives him mad. Deka...she has a bit of a mean streak. We've never gotten along with her. She's one who likes to mock anyone who's...different....” he trailed off, leaving her to assume that he was one of the maid's favorite targets.

“And the one he kissed?” she persisted, slightly surprised at the bolt of jealousy that ran through her at the thought. The young archer laughed.

“Brís? That was forty years ago, and he _was_ rather drunk. I think she's wed now.” He grinned. “She is a good bit older than us, and it was a dare,” he confided. Viska nodded, a thousand confusing thoughts and feelings rushing through her.

“So he is unattached?”

“Officially, yes.”

Disappointment choked her and she closed her eyes. “And unofficially?”

Kíli glanced at her, his bright smile fading slightly as he took in the change in her demeanor. He rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Let me ask you something, _namadith_ ,” he countered quietly. “Are _you_ unattached?”

She stumbled and shrugged, refusing to meet his gaze. “I'm older than you,” she pointed out irrelevantly. He snorted.

“But shorter, so it stands. Now, answer the question.”

Viska sighed. “Officially, yes.”

“And unofficially?”

Green eyes met brown, then flitted away quickly. “I might find my interest focused on a particular Dwarrow,” she admitted after a long moment. Kíli nodded and released her shoulder, returning his gaze to the surrounding landscape.

“And I'm guessing he is not raven-haired?” he teased quietly. “Blue eyes? A bit on the short side? Rather stubborn, and prone to getting trampled by Wargs?”

“Compassionate, kind, and understanding,” she countered a little indignantly. “Endlessly patient with his annoying little brother.”

“A walking arsenal? And rather enamored of you?”

That stopped her in her tracks.

“What?”

Kíli snickered. “He watches you as much as you watch him. It's rather adorable, actually. I'd have a splendid time teasing him if we were back home and not trying to keep it a secret that you are a lass. Actually, that might make it even more fun, now that I think of-Ow!”

 

* * *

 

The prince's yelp of pain caught Óin's attention and the healer glanced back in concern, shaking his head with a small smile when he saw Kíli hopping on one leg while he rubbed at his shin and glared at the young jeweler indignantly. Visk, for his part, looked far too innocent to be trusted as he returned to his task of keeping an eye and ear out for the hunting Orcs.

 

* * *

 

Thorin did not permit a stop at midday, pointing out that they had nearly nothing to eat, anyway. Still wary of the Orcs, the Company only grumbled a little as they continued their eastward trek. Less than an hour later, the first howls rose behind them. Trisk spun in concern, spying Kíli and Viska in the rearguard position. The archer had an arrow nocked, while the lass protected his flank, sword in hand as she scanned the horizon.

“Pull in!” Thorin ordered, summoning the Dwarrow into a defensive huddle on the open plain. The sounds of the pack were still far distant, but all of them held their weapons at the ready as they studied their surroundings.

“We've nowhere to go,” Balin murmured.

“And we won't stand a chance fighting them in the open,” his brother growled. Thorin nodded wearily, deep in thought.

“I know of a house nearby where we might seek refuge,” Gandalf spoke up quietly.

Thorin huffed and pinned the wizard with his stern blue gaze. “And who does it belong to, this house?” he asked. “Are they friend or foe?”

That look was back on the wizard's face – the one that said he knew they were not going to like his reply. “Neither,” he answered with a sigh. “He will help us, or he will kill us.”

“Well, that's encouraging,” Glóin muttered.

“What choice do we have?” the king asked resignedly.

More howls rose behind them, closer, and Gandalf shook his head.  
“None.”

 

Triskel was of the opinion that this expedition had required entirely too much running for a group of heavy-boned Dwarves. Fleeing the Orcs and Wargs in the Angle, the goblins in the tunnels, Azog's pack on the slopes of the Misty Mountains – it was more than any self-respecting child of Aulë should be expected to suffer. And yet, here they were, running hell-for-leather through the wide plains east of the Anduin, their goal a house of dubious safety where they might find either succor or death, on the advice of a wizard. Trisk would have been swearing if he'd had the breath to spare. Since he didn't, he invented new, colorful expletives in his mind as he narrowly avoided a large hummock. He could hear the baying of the Wargs – their trail was discovered, but it sounded like they had won a little space. It would not last, but they could do their best to use it while it did.

 

* * *

 

The Orcs caught up to them at dusk.

The younger Dwarves were in the lead, just behind the wizard, Kíli's longer legs carrying him slightly ahead of Fíli, while Viska was close on the golden prince's heels. Trisk and Ori came next, the scribe having passed his older brother (to Nori's surprise). The thief, Bofur, and Dori hauled Bilbo along with them, with Balin, Óin, and Bombur just behind. Thorin, Glóin, Dwalin, and Bifur brought up the rear, weapons in hand as they ran. Bifur spotted the first Warg riders and called out a warning in Khuzdul that had Thorin and Dwalin cursing. The princes slowed, turning toward their uncle as Kíli reached for his bow and Fíli slipped the throwing axes from their ankle straps. Out of habit, the siblings from Emyn Uial slowed with them, leaving Ori to continue on behind Gandalf.

“GO!” Thorin bellowed, waving them on with Orcrist. “Don't you dare stop!!”

Wrenching her own sword from the sheath on her back, Viska watched the brothers exchange a look, Kíli's brow quirking as Fíli shook his head almost imperceptibly. The dark prince nodded, one hand flitting over his shoulder for an arrow as the first Orcs came within range. The young Dwarf planted his feet and began loosing arrows as fast as he could aim, knocking two Orcs down and wounding a Warg in a few heartbeats. Two more Orcs fell with the small axes buried in their skulls before Fíli took up a position to his brother's left as Viska fell in to the right, both with blades bared.

Then a pale form crested the rise they had just left, and Azog paused to survey the scene before him. The foremost of the pack were closing with Thorin and his warriors as the rest of the Company drove for the house, pushing Ori and Bilbo ahead of them. Gandalf had halted at the gate, waving the Dwarves in as they arrived. Viska's heart chilled in her chest as the pale Orc's gaze flickered over the plain, a sneering smile spreading across his face as it lit on the defiant huddle that was the princes and their companions. The Defiler called out an order in Black Speech and several of his followers spread out to flank the group of older warriors who faced them, circling around toward the youngsters. Thorin, back to back with Dwalin and fighting fiercely against a feral Warg, did not even look around.

“DORI! BOFUR! Get them out of here!! Trisk, Visk, GO! That is an _order_ from your king!”

Viska sheathed her sword, then gave Kíli a breath to fire the arrow that he had nocked, then she caught the younger lad's coat collar and pulled him around, practically throwing him to Bofur as the miner reached them. Dori and Trisk grabbed the elder prince's arms and hauled him toward the hedge. Both lads struggled, yelling in protest as they were forced from the field, but their friends ignored the curses and shoved them through the gate just as a roar like thunder broke over them.

The lass risked a glance back – Dwalin, Glóin, Thorin, and Bifur were fighting furiously as a massive furry shape hurtled around the far corner of the hedged fence. Bypassing the Dwarves, it plowed into the Orcs with the unstoppable fury of a landslide, snarling and snapping. Viska froze, terror rooting her to the ground as she battled an insane urge to laugh at the blatant shock on Azog's chalky face. Dimly, she was aware that Thorin and the others had seized the distraction and were running for the gate. Kíli had stopped fighting Bofur and was now pulling at the back of her coat.

“Come on! Move your _ass_ , Visk!”

“Move it, laddie!”

The panic in her friends' voices finally cut through the haze and the Dwarrowmaid spun to follow them. Behind her, the Orcs and Wargs were absorbed in fighting the furred behemoth, shrieks and yelps of pain filling the air. Dwalin was on Viska's heels as she ran for the building, and she heard Gandalf slam the gate shut as the last Dwarf made it through, but they did not stop until they were inside the house, heaving a massive bar into place to secure the door. Only then did they relax, panting, legs quivering with exhaustion.

“What was _that_?” Ori demanded, his eyes still wide and panicky.

Viska looked back to see Bilbo hastily sheathing his Elvish blade while Gandalf looked rather pleased with himself.

“That is our host,” he replied, smiling slightly at their incredulous reactions. “His name is Beorn, and he is a skin-changer. Sometimes he is a great tall Man, other times he is a huge black bear. The bear is unpredictable, but the Man can be reasoned with.”

“You couldn't have mentioned that a bit earlier?” Dwalin snarled.

“When?” Trisk asked with a bark of laughter. The big warrior glared at him and the silversmith shrugged. “We were a bit busy running,” he pointed out. “And it's not like we had a choice.”

“He has a point, brother,” Balin spoke up, having gotten his breath back. He tipped Trisk a wink and waved off any further grumbling. “We're here now, and safe for the moment. Gandalf knows what he's about. It's too late to change our minds, besides.”

Kíli was staring at the door in fascination. “Is he under some enchantment?” he asked curiously.

“Well, it's clearly not natural. Gives me the shivers. Dark magic,” Dori groused. The wizard gave him a dark look.  
“He's under no enchantment but his own. He is also not over-fond of Dwarves, but he has a deep hatred for Goblins and Orcs, so I believe he will help us. Get some sleep. You will be safe here tonight.”

Sleep sounded like the best suggestion that had been made in days. Finding the nearest pile of hay, Trisk dropped his gear and turned to look for his sister. Viska appeared at his elbow, her eyes dark with exhaustion, and he gave her a worried look. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, dropping her gear next to his.

_Tired. I seem to say that a lot._

“Well, it's true,” he sighed. “Every time we get a chance to rest, it's followed by a period of running for our lives.”

“Oof!”

Kíli had dropped his gear and flung himself down on the scattered hay with a dramatic groan. “I can't feel my legs. And I think my stomach is chewing on my spine.”  
“You're always hungry, _nadadith_ ,” Fíli commented, dropping his pack on his brother's midsection so the archer yelped and doubled over, rolling onto his side. “There might be some dried fruit in my bag. Help yourself.”

“Fruit? What am I, an Elf?”

“I thought you were hungry. If not, I'm sure some of the others are.”

“Oh, all right,” the dark prince pouted. “You're no fun when you're grumpy.”

The blond prince sighed and sank down next to him, leaning into Kíli's shoulder. “Not grumpy so much as tired. Sorry, brother.”

“S'alright. Here, have some dried peaches.”

“Thanks. So kind of you to share my food with me.”

“Fíli! Kíli! A word!”

The brothers lurched to their feet at the sound of Dwalin's barked summons, eyes wide and startled as they glanced at one another in confusion. The big warrior waited with Thorin at the door to a smaller room off to the side of the hall. A soft glow of lamplight spilled over the threshold from inside the chamber. As they hesitated, the weapons trainer growled impatiently.

“NOW!”

Fíli straightened his back and hurried across the hall, his dark shadow at his heels. Viska watched with concern as they followed the king and the warrior into the room and the big door slammed shut behind them. She glanced at Trisk, who shrugged, worry in his hazel eyes.  
“They'll be fine,” he assured her, sounding only half-convinced himself.

 

* * *

 

Thorin stood behind his commander, keeping silent as he watched his nephews' faces in the light of the lantern.

“What did you think you were doing?” Dwalin demanded, fury in his face. The princes stared back at him in shock.

“Fighting,” Kíli replied, incredulous.

“Defending our king!” Fíli retorted.

“Looked to me like you were _endangering_ your king, and everyone else!” the warrior roared. “Your king gave you an order, and you disobeyed it. Is that how you behave in battle? Ignore your commander's orders because they aren't want you want to do? Azog wants to wipe out the Line of Durin – that means Thorin, and that means you. He killed your great-grandfather, and possibly your grandfather. He led the Orcs that killed your uncle Frerin. What part of 'don't you dare stop' sounded like a flamin' _request_? Visk and Trisk stopped to protect you fools, Dori and Bofur had to _go back_ for you, because you _defied orders_! That display out there made me regret ever speakin' up for you when your ma said you were too young. Those weren't the actions of soldiers, but of spoiled princelings, sure that their blood will protect them from the consequences of their actions.” Dwalin stopped to take a deep breath, scrubbing at his face with one hand, then shook his head. When he spoke again, his voice was marginally gentler.

“I know you lads are brave, and eager to prove yourselves, but being a good warrior is more than fighting for your king. It's being _where_ he needs you to be, _when_ he needs you to be there – whether it's fighting at his side, or hightailin' it to safety. You didn't just risk _your_ lives out there. You risked your uncle's, because he was distracted when Azog sent his troops for you. You risked mine, and Glóin's, and Bifur's, because we were counting on Thorin to be focused on the battle, watching our backs. You risked Visk's, and Trisk's, because those lads would stand by you before Smaug himself. And you risked Dori's and Bofur's, because they _followed orders_ and came back for your sorry hides!”

Neither lad had uttered a word during the big warrior's diatribe – Kíli's dark eyes had widened with every statement until he looked like a wounded pup, while Fíli's face had paled until he was roughly the color of parchment, the whip wound from the goblin caves standing out vividly. He had actually flinched when Dwalin mentioned them risking the lives of the lads from Emyn Uial with their disobedience, and Thorin nodded. He had hoped that pointing out the danger they had created for their friends might help drive the lesson home.

“Well, have you anything to say for yourselves?”

“No, sir,” Kíli replied softly.

The king and his commander stared at them in surprise. Never could Thorin remember seeing Dís's sons look so remorseful. Fíli's eyes had a haunted look, and Kíli's shone with tears that the lad refused to shed. As one, they sank to their knees, heads hanging.

“We have shamed our uncle, and our house,” Fíli added hoarsely. “You are right. We disobeyed our king's orders and risked the lives of the Company for our own pride.”

“Arrogance,” Kíli corrected, his voice barely audible. “We were fools. It will not happen again.”

Thorin sighed deeply. “Oh, I daresay it will.” He stepped forward, bending to raise their faces with a hand beneath each lad's chin, making them meet his gaze. “You are young – you are allowed your moments of foolish pride from time to time. But not in battle. Not when it risks the lives of your companions. Commanders are commanders because they have experience and age to balance their view of the battle.” Offering each of them a hand, he tugged his nephews to their feet, pulling them into a tight embrace and resting his forehead against theirs. “You are skilled warriors, none can doubt that, but Azog is old, and crafty, and utterly ruthless. He marked you out on the cliffs when you came to my aid, and he will seek you out again. I _cannot_ lose you.”


	12. Whispers from the Past

The rest of the Company was doing their best to ignore the distant thunder of Dwalin's voice in the next room as they bedded down. Beorn's hall was large and open, lit by carefully tended lanterns in the raised living area that filled the high ceilings with gathered shadows. The other half of the open space was dedicated to the animals, where sweet-faced goats and placid cattle had settled into the hay bedding. The furnishings were decorated with simple abstract designs and rough representations of wildlife. Most of the Dwarves had their gear spread out on piles of hay, digging through their packs for any stray provisions they might have missed, as they were unwilling to do any rummaging in the skin-changer's home without his permission. Trisk found a few flattened travel biscuits in the bottom of his and shared them out, and a few of the others contributed dried fruits and a couple of pieces of jerky. Balin carefully set aside a small portion for each of the four who were otherwise occupied and the others ate what they had, hoping Gandalf was right in thinking that Beorn would be willing to help them in the morning.

Most of the Dwarves were already snoring by the time Fíli and Kíli emerged from the room where they had been closeted with Dwalin and Thorin, the king and his commander following shortly thereafter. Both princes looked weary and worn, but they managed smiles for Bilbo when the little Hobbit approached them, looking concerned.

“We're fine,” Kíli assured his friend, accepting the food that Balin pressed into his hands. “Just a lecture on our inability to follow orders.”

Trisk did not comment as the lads settled in the hay near him and quickly ate their dinners. Viska was already asleep, curled on her side with her back to the room. The fair-haired prince glanced at her, a haunted look in his blue eyes, before meeting the silversmith's gaze.

“I feel like I spend half of my time needing to apologize to you,” Fíli confessed quietly. “We put you, and her, in danger tonight, and for that, I am deeply sorry.”

Kíli nodded, his dark eyes awash with regret. “Dwalin was right, we're fools,” he mumbled. “We could have gotten half of the Company killed.”

Trisk shook his head, smoothing the blanket over his sister's shoulder. “I think your uncle and Dwalin made their point. Besides, it was our choice to stand with you. We could have kept going. We disobeyed as much as you did – you just have the bad luck of being princes and primary targets. You owe us nothing. We are proud to stand with the Line of Durin. Now, get some sleep. I imagine we will have to meet this skin-changer in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

Fíli fully expected to fall asleep as soon as he lay down, his head pillowed in hay, his brother and friends already snoring nearby. But instead of dozing off, he found himself staring at the wood beam ceiling, thinking over the recent conversation with Kíli regarding Viska.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face as it had been that night after the Carrock – the small smile that teased the corners of her lips, the soft curls of chestnut hair at her temples. He had seen Dwarrowmaids more striking or classically beautiful back home, but there was something about Viska that spoke to his heart. Her wholesome, open face...the challenging green eyes...the gentle, wistful smile. Even the scars seemed simply a part of her, earned in defense of her home and her people.

“You're doing it again.”

An amused whisper broke into his thoughts and his eyes flickered open. Kíli was propped up on an elbow next to him, dark eyes dancing with mischief.

“What?”

“When you think about her, you start humming – this deep, appreciative sound down in your chest,” the dark prince replied quietly. Fíli threw one arm over his face and groaned in embarrassment.

“How long have I been doing it?” he demanded quietly. Kíli chuckled.

“I don't know. I just noticed it after the Carrock.” He grimaced and corrected himself. “Actually, Thorin noticed, and that brought it to my attention. That's why I made that comment about Deka and Nuli, so they would come to mind if anyone else noticed. It sounds vaguely familiar, but I cannot quite place it. What is it?”

“I'm not even aware _that_ I'm humming, what makes you think that I know _what_ I'm humming?” the elder retorted. Kíli snorted a laugh and hummed a little of the tune. Fíli lowered his arm and stared at him, his brow furrowed in puzzlement as memories crowded his mind....

 

* * *

 

_Four-year-old Kíli is fast asleep next to him, but nine-year-old Fíli has a question to ask – one that has recently started occurring to him. Usually, the familiar tune hummed in his mother's rich voice sends him quickly to sleep, but not always, and he has become aware of late that there are often tears in Amad's eyes when the song is done. The song tugs at something deep in his heart, and the fact that his brave, strong mother is brought to tears by a melody means it is something worth investigating. The only time he can remember seeing Amad weep was in those terrible months after Adad went to the Halls of Mandos._

_“Amad?”  
Dís starts and dashes the tears away before answering. “Yes, love?”_

_“What's that song?”_

_She smiles, a tender, haunted smile that is usually reserved for sad but beloved memories, and reaches out to brush the unruly blond hair out of his face. “That is the Song of the Mountain, my Fíli. Mama's adad used to hum it to her and Uncle Thorin and Uncle Frerin when they were very small.”_

_“What are the words, Amad? You never sing the words.”_

_“Because there aren't any, sweeting. It is just a melody.”_

_This is a new concept to a Dwarfling raised in a heritage rich with songs that tell tales and recount history. “What kind of song hasn't any words?”_

_“An old one. Members of our family have hummed this song since the founding of Erebor, our home in the Lonely Mountain.”_

_He stares at her in awe. “The one in Uncle's tales?”_

_She nods, a tiny smile teasing the corners of her mouth. “The very one.”_

_“It's an Erebor song?”_

_“Yes.”_

_He frowns, his excitement dimmed by a sudden thought. “Then why doesn't Uncle hum it?”_

_She sighs and bows her head, taking his tiny hand in hers, calloused and gentle. “Because it makes him sad. He misses Erebor.”_

_“Don't you?”_

_“Yes, and it makes me sad, too.” She is smiling again, but now it is tender and loving. “But it also makes me happy to be able to share the song with you and your brother, like I shared it with Adad. It is a song that the heirs of Durin will always share with those they love most, even if Erebor is forever lost.”_

 

* * *

 

Fíli shook off the memory and met his brother's curious gaze. “It's the Song of the Mountain, the one _Amad_ used to hum to us at bedtime. Don't you remember?”

Kíli's eyes lit up. “Of course! The one that bothered you because it didn't have words. I always loved that song.”

“So did I. And apparently, I still do. _Amad_ told me once that it was a song that Dwarves of Durin's line would always share with those they...cared about.”

Kíli was silent for a long moment, and the elder brother braced himself for the cheeky comments that were no doubt forthcoming. Eventually, though, the archer simply nodded and smiled, with none of his usual sass. “Well, that's food for thought, then.”

“Anyway, I thank you for the cover story,” the elder muttered, glancing at him.

Kili shrugged and settled back into his blanket, closing his eyes. “That's what brothers are for.”

Fíli snorted. “When you aren't teasing me yourself, of course.”

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

In the morning light, the hall looked even bigger, the rough beam ceiling high above their heads and the well-worn furniture nearly twice the size of similar pieces in a Dwarven home. Viska stayed asleep for as long as she could, burying her head in the straw when the sound of someone chopping wood began drifting through the window, and pulling her pack over her head when the others began to stir. Finally, a hand clamped on her belt and hoisted her to her feet. Trisk laughed as she glowered at him, picking straw out of her hood and adjusting her scarf.

“You and the burglar are the last ones to wake. Come on, Gandalf says it's time to meet our host.”

The rest of the Company was gathered by the back door, Bofur up on a large chair as he peered out the window.

“We don't want to overwhelm him,” Gandalf was saying, a note of warning in his voice. “The last person to startle him was torn to shreds. So, I'll go first, and Bilbo, you'll come with me.” Viska rolled her eyes as Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli all but shoved the nervous Hobbit to the front of the group. Big brave heirs of Durin, indeed. “The rest of you, come out in pairs, a few minutes apart, but wait for me to give the signal. Bombur, you count as two, so you'll come out by yourself.”

The cook nodded glumly, munching absently on a carrot. As soon as Gandalf stepped out the door, Bilbo close behind, the Company sorted themselves out into pairs. The wizard's voice could be heard, though the words weren't clear, and it was soon joined by a deep, rumbling voice that sounded impatient. When Bofur finally spoke up from the window, waving Balin and Dwalin out, Viska took a deep breath and glanced at her brother.

“Nothing to fear, yeah?” Kíli muttered quietly behind her. “Just a Man who changes into a bear.”

“And makes Gandalf nervous,” Fíli noted, as Glóin and Óin started out the door.

“Did he say that the last person to startle him got torn to _shreds_?” Trisk asked under his breath. Ori squeaked as Dori propelled him outside.

 

Viska had seen Men before – her village had been mostly Dwarves, but some Men had lived there, and there were often traders passing through – but Beorn was unlike anything she had ever seen, towering over even Gandalf. There was an air of untamed wildness to him, though he made no threatening move toward the Dwarves. An edge of amusement seemed to be replacing his irritation by the time she and Trisk stepped out to join the others, but he still looked fierce enough that she was glad that they were staying well back. The wizard was giving a summary of their adventures in the Misty Mountains, ending with an apology for leading the Orc pack directly to Beorn's door. The skin changer dismissed the incident with a shrug, setting his ax aside.

“It has been long since they dared to come so close,” he commented, studying his guests. “And it will be longer before they dare to again. Orc heads and Warg pelts decorate the boundary of my land now, as a warning. Which reminds me.” He nodded toward where several arrows and two familiar throwing axes lay on the seat of a large chair. “Some among your party have excellent aim. It seemed a shame not to return weapons used to such great effect.”

The princes, nearly the last of the Company to emerge, gave small smiles and ducked their heads in thanks as they retrieved their weapons. Then Thorin stepped out of the cabin, and the fierce eyes focused on the Dwarf king.

“So,” Beorn rumbled. “You are the one they call Oakenshield. It appears that we have much to discuss. Come, inside. There is plenty of food to spare, even for so hungry a group of guests as Dwarves. And perhaps you can tell me why Azog the Defiler is hunting you.”

Thorin stiffened. “You know of Azog?” he demanded, eyes flashing. “How?”  
“The Dwarves are not the only ones to suffer at the hands of the pale Orc,” the skin-changer replied, a look of faraway sorrow in his eyes as he led the group inside. Viska took a seat on a low chest, watching their huge host as he set out milk, bread, and honey for his guests. “My people used to live in those mountains, before the Orcs and Goblins came.”

“There are more like you?” Bilbo asked, intrigued. Beorn sighed heavily.

“Once, there were many.”

“And now?” Bilbo's question was more subdued this time, as though he knew the answer he would receive.

“Now, there is only one. The Orcs killed many of my folk. Others, they imprisoned for sport. It is long since I escaped, but my memory is undimmed.”

A warm weight in her lap startled Viska and she glanced down to see that one of the goats had shoved a furry head onto her lap, snuffling curiously at her clothes. Smiling gently, the Dwarf lass scratched behind the nanny's ears and clucked at her affectionately. Beorn glanced at the Dwarrowmaid, then turned his gaze on Thorin.

“You need to reach the Lonely Mountain by the last days of autumn.”

“Before Durin's Day falls, yes,” Gandalf agreed. Beorn shook his head.

“You are running out of time.”

The wizard sighed and nodded. “That is why we must go through Mirkwood.”

A look of dismay or disgust flitted across the skin-changer's face. “A darkness lies upon that forest. Fell things creep beneath the trees.” He locked eyes with Gandalf and the lass read a warning there, one that she felt certain that the Dwarves were not expected to notice or understand. “There is an alliance between the Orcs of Moria and the Necromancer in Dol Guldur in the southern part of the forest. I would not venture there, except in great need.”

Gandalf nodded, but offered his compromise. “We will take the Elven road. That way is still safe.”

“Safe?” Beorn's thick brows rose. “The Wood Elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin. They are less wise, and more dangerous.” He surveyed the Company once more and sighed. “But it matters not.”

Thorin's sharp eyes swept up to his face. “What do you mean?” he demanded, anger in his tone.

“Beyond my boundaries, these lands are crawling with Orcs,” came the somber reply. “Their numbers grow daily. And you are on foot. You will never reach the forest alive. I don't like Dwarves,” he commented, scooping a mouse off of the table that Bofur had been shooing away from his plate. “They're greedy, and blind to the lives of those they consider lesser than themselves. But I hate Orcs more.” He looked up, amber eyes meeting sapphire as he stared at Thorin. “What do you need?”

“Ponies to carry us to Mirkwood. Provisions,” the king replied bluntly. He glanced around at the Company. “And a day of rest before we leave, if we are not too much of an inconvenience,” he added, sighing.

“You will need your strength to travel through the wood,” Beorn agreed. “And ponies I have, though you must send them back once you reach the forest. I will not have them passing under those trees. Rest, Durin's folk. I will send you on your way with what aid I can provide on the morrow.”

 

* * *

 

Thorin knew that the Company needed to rest before they could continue their journey. They were weary and nearly out of supplies, with healing injuries and nerves after the events of the past few days. He himself was still coming to terms with the fact that Azog was alive. All very good reasons to spend a day resting at Beorn's home. But the Durin's Day deadline hung over his head and he itched to be on his way, so he was getting little to none of the benefits of the delay for himself. He could not rest, mentally champing at the bit.

“We need this rest, Thorin, you as much as anyone. Stop glaring at the world. Ori's half-afraid of you as it is, and I'm not entirely sure about Master Baggins.”

He snorted and turned his glare on Balin, only to have his old friend give him a serene smile in return. Thorin sighed and shook his head, a reluctant grin teasing the corners of his mouth.

“I hate sitting still,” he confessed, turning his gaze back to survey the Company. “I know we need the rest. I know that a delay now to let everyone recover will save time in the long run. I just-”

“-hate sitting still, I know,” his adviser finished for him. “I've known you your entire life, Thorin. I am well aware of your active nature. I cannot believe that you ever wondered where your nephews got their energy. They remind me of you and Frerin as lads. Only you had a larger group of friends to drag into trouble in your wake.”

The king shrugged and gave him a sideways glance. “Made it easier to find someone else to blame it on,” he retorted with a sly smirk. The mention of his sister-sons set off a new line of thought, however, and he glanced over to where dark head and fair were bent close in soft conversation. “Do you think we were too hard on them, Balin?”

“No.” The elder Dwarf shook his head firmly, but there was a fond, affectionate expression on his face when he looked at the lads. “They are young, but this quest is unforgiving of youthful mistakes,” he replied, looking weary beyond measure. “Azog lives, and Smaug may as well. They are brave lads, and skilled, but they need discipline to survive.”

“I always worry that I am being too hard, or not hard enough.” The king spoke softly, thoughtfully. “They are young, but they are sons of Durin. Skilled, but inexperienced. I want to protect them, but they must stand on their own feet if they are to follow me as leaders of our people.”

The elder Dwarf smiled. “They didn't grow up on the road during the Exile, taking on too much responsibility too early. Wasn't that your goal when you settled us in the old kingdom at Ered Luin? Letting the young lads and lasses stay Dwarflings? They are not spoiled – you've seen to that. They are young, and inexperienced, and time will see to both. Trust in the training, Thorin, and in their blood, and the spirit they inherited from their mother,” Balin told him gently. “They are your sister-sons, and we four – you, Dís, Dwalin, and I – have taught them everything they could learn without putting the lessons to the test out in the world. I think you were wise to point out that they risked the safety of others, especially Kulvik's lads. They are much like you in putting others before themselves.”

Thorin nodded, glancing at the lads from Emyn Uial, near his heirs as ever. “At least those two had the sense to help drag them to safety.”

“Loyal as their father.”

There was a long silence between the two old friends before Thorin finally spoke again.

“Do you think that we will find it, Balin?”  
  
“The door? Yes, if we get there in time.”

“The Arkenstone.”

Balin sighed. “That, I cannot say. It may be buried beneath tons of gold, much less the dragon himself. You have to admit that the odds were never in our favor. We cannot defeat the dragon without Dáin's armies, but Dáin will not join us unless we retrieve the Arkenstone. We will have to go forward as we can, and make our decisions based on what we find.”

 

* * *

 

The Company was scattered through the lands of Beorn's compound the sun reached its highest point, each relaxing in his (or her) own way. The princes found Bilbo sitting with his pipe under a tree in the bee pastures, a peaceful smile on his face as he blew smoke rings and watched them drift away.

“That looks like a lovely way to spend an afternoon,” Kíli commented with a smile. “Could you spare a pinch of pipeweed?”

“I believe I might,” the Hobbit replied, pulling a pouch from his pocket. He glanced at Fíli and cocked an eyebrow. “Any for you, my lad?”

The crown prince hesitated, then shook his head.

“Not right now, Master Burglar, though I thank you for the offer. I think I will wander a bit.”

He nodded briefly and hurried off, leaving Bilbo rather surprised. Kíli felt a small smile creep across his face as he settled next to the Halfling and lit his pipe.

“Well, that is unusual. I rarely see you two apart. Is he alright?”

The archer nodded. “He just needs to clear his head. And what about you, Mister Boggins?” he added, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “How are you finding our friend Beorn's hospitality?”

Ignoring the jibe, the Hobbit leaned back against the trunk of the tree, sighing in contentment. “Lovely, actually,” he admitted. “This place reminds me of the Shire. Though our bees are a bit smaller, of course.”

Kíli nodded, remembering the little he had seen of his friend's homeland. “It seemed a quiet and comfortable place, your Shire. Is it really so peaceful as it appears?”

Bilbo appeared to think for a long moment. “Well, yes. Oh, there is personal drama from time to time – not every Hobbit can get along with every other, of course.” He flushed slightly. “I admit I even have relations that I would rather avoid. But it is a quiet land – a gentle country, focused mainly on its own small doings. I daresay we are rather an insular folk. And there is much emphasis on respectability.”

The younger prince grinned, imagining an entire community of folk like the genteel, proper burglar. “And I imagine that you are quite a respectable Hobbit.”

“Well, I was. Never had any adventures. Until Gandalf showed up at my door, followed by a troop of Dwarves!”

“Hobbits don't like adventures?” Kíli asked curiously.

“Oh, no, certainly not,” Bilbo assured him, laughing a little. “Adventures, quests, journeys, expeditions – all quite frowned upon in respectable Hobbit society.”

“Then how on earth did Gandalf persuade you to come?”

“Ah, well...I'm not from the most respectable line, you see. Or at least, not entirely. My father was a Baggins – quite a stolid, dependable line. But my mother...ah, dear Mother was a Took, and the Tooks are rather like the Brandybucks, in that both of those families are rather infamous for producing adventurers and explorers. They are lucky that they also tend to be wealthy, so certain things can be overlooked.”

The Dwarf lad pondered that thought for a moment. “Or perhaps they are wealthy because they have members who are willing to do a little adventuring?” he offered. Bilbo looked slightly surprised, then shrugged.

“Perhaps.”

“So what convinced you to join us, if your folk dislike adventures so? You are no Dwarf, to be drawn by gold and riches.”

The Hobbit laughed. “Apparently, my Took blood is stronger than I ever imagined. I never thought my life lacking until you lot descended on my cozy smial and turned it upside down.”

“Do you ever regret coming along?”

There was a long pause this time, but the Halfling finally sighed and shook his head. “Not anymore. I miss home, of course, as Thorin noted, and I will be happy to return when it is all done. But I would not have missed this for the world. The friendships more than the danger, of course. I could have done without the Goblins, and the Wargs, and I hope that Beorn's help will let us get ahead of the Orcs so the worst will be behind us.”

Kíli turned sharp eyes on his smaller friend, not having missed the first part of the answer.

“You said 'not anymore.' So you did regret it, before?”

“Yes,” Bilbo admitted. “I do not think that you lads were awake to hear it, and Bofur has not spoken of it, but I almost left the Company in the Misty Mountains.”

“When? Why?”

“Just after the Stone Giants. In fact, I was saying good-bye to Bofur when the Goblins' trap was sprung.”

“Because of Thorin?” the archer asked shrewdly, remembering the unpleasant scene that Trisk had described after Bilbo nearly fell off of the mountain path. The Halfling nodded.

“Partly. Mainly because I felt he was right. I did not belong, and I was more hindrance than help. Then came the Goblins, and I thought perhaps I could help you all, once I escaped. Actually prove myself as a member of the Company.” He sighed and gave a defeated little shrug. “But I couldn't even stand up against one Goblin, and then I fell into the tunnels....” He trailed off, shivering slightly in the warm sunshine. Kíli eyed him with concern before speaking again.

“Whatever happened down there, Master Baggins? You never told us.”

Bilbo shook his head and studied his pipe. “A lot of wandering in cold, deep tunnels, thinking that I would never see the light of day again. Perhaps I will tell more later. I know Gandalf wants to hear the story, and Thorin. Perhaps I should just explain it all once and be done with it. After dinner.”

 


	13. Haunting Memories

 Fíli left his brother in quiet conversation with Bilbo and went looking for Viska. He had thought he might find her in the soothing presence of Beorn's animals, but she was nowhere to be seen. Finally, he had to approach Triskel and ask where he might find her. Her brother gazed at him steadily for a long moment, hazel eyes narrowed in thought.

“The apple orchard,” he finally answered. “With Ori.”

Fíli nodded and thanked him, then hurried off. The apple orchard was not far, and the smell of the ripe fruit carried on the afternoon breeze. The fair-haired prince spotted Ori first, waiting at the bottom of a tree with a basket full of the bright red fruit. Viska was up in the tree, moving from branch to branch with the agility of a squirrel as she selected the best she could find. Ori glanced up and smiled at Fíli's approach, holding up the basket proudly.

“Beorn's apples are already ripe, though it's early for them anywhere else. We thought the Company might like a pie tonight,” the young scribe told him brightly. “Bombur agreed to make it if we harvested the apples.”

“Sounds like a plan, Ori,” Fíli replied with a smile. “I think you might have enough to get some of the others started on peeling and coring, don't you think? Why don't you run the basket back to the house? I'll make sure Visk doesn't break his neck falling out of the tree.”

Ori nodded agreeably, glancing up at the other Dwarf. Viska had stopped moving about in the tree as soon as Fíli spoke, and now sat on a large branch, staring down at him inscrutably, green eyes glittering above the scarf. She nodded briefly when Ori asked if the arrangement was acceptable, then returned her gaze to Fíli as the lad hurried off. Fíli stood under the tree, staring back up at her silently.

“You're not coming down, are you?” he finally asked with a small smile. She shook her head. “Do you mind if I come up, then? I'd rather not shout so the whole Company can hear.” Viska shrugged, then waved him up, setting her back against the tree trunk. She did not offer any assistance as the prince scrambled up to the first branch, picking his way carefully from branch to branch until he sat quite close. He settled in to a semi-comfortable spot and sat looking at her for a long time before either of them spoke.

“You look troubled, my prince,” Viska finally commented softly, loosening her scarf and pushing her hood back to let the breeze tease her chestnut hair. Fíli grimaced and shook his head.

“Don't you start, or I'll start calling you 'fair maiden' every time I speak to you in private,” he threatened. She chuckled softly.

“Fair enough. Truly, what is bothering you, Fíli?”

He sighed and stared out at the blue sky through the leaves of the tree, memories of actual events and dreams twisting through his mind.

“I keep having nightmares,” he finally admitted. “They make it a bit hard to sleep.”  
  
She nodded, her face full of sympathy and understanding. “Me, too. Are yours of the Goblin caves?”  
  
He shrugged. “Sometimes. Kíli being tortured, or worse. But sometimes...” he trailed off, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath that he held for a moment before letting it out again. “Sometimes, it's the cliff, and Azog. Thorin falls, and Bilbo does not save him, and we are too late. Mahal, if the burglar had not jumped out like that, we would have lost him. My uncle would have died, the quest would have been over.” He laughed shakily, realizing how skewed his priorities must sound, but there was no judgment in the Dwarrowmaid's eyes, only confusion.

“Over? Why? Do we not have two other sons of Durin?” she asked curiously. “To lose Thorin would be devastating, unthinkable, yes...but you are Thorin's heir and the mantle would pass to you. _You_ would lead the Company to Erebor to retake and restore it.”

Fíli shook his head, rejecting the idea immediately. “No. Thorin should be king. I do not want that burden yet. Perhaps never. Gandalf seems to think that something is building – some great darkness – and he wants Erebor to help stand against it.” He heard her startled intake of breath and glanced at her with a small smile. “What? I do listen, even if the wizard speaks only to the elders,” he chided gently. “He whispers of Dol Guldur, the ancient fortress of the Enemy. If Mordor were to rise again, Gondor and Rohan could not stand alone. If Thorin fell, I would do my best, but I would need the Arkenstone. And even then, would old warriors like Dáin follow me?”

That kind smile spread across her face and she shook her head. “The seven houses are sworn to follow he who holds the Arkenstone. Even I know that. But more, I think you underestimate the loyalty you inspire, Fíli,” she commented, her eyes bright. “Not just as Thorin's heir, or a son of Durin, but as yourself, Fíli, son of Torvi and Dis. You would not be alone. Kíli would be at your side, always. Your cousins as well, Balin, Dwalin, Óin, and Glóin.”

“You? And Trisk?”

“Of course, but we have no family connection to strengthen your rule.”

“Sometimes friendship is benefit enough,” he replied quietly.

“That, we can offer. Friendship and loyalty unto the end of days.”

He did not answer, a small voice in the back of his mind reminding him that friendship wasn't exactly the feeling that he had for the lively Dwarrowmaid. Oh, it was a good part of it, but not the strongest part. He cleared his throat, wondering if he dared broach the topic here and now, and glanced at her apprehensively, only to find that Viska wasn't meeting his gaze – her attention seemed to be a bit lower – which was understandable, since he was suddenly unable to keep his eyes off of her soft-looking lips, quirked in a tiny grin. He realized abruptly that her face was extremely close. And it did seem a shame to waste that proximity, not to mention the second time that he had ever gotten to look at her properly. It would only require leaning forward a little bit further...

...her lips were cool, and soft, and pliant, and kissing him back with innocent fervor...

...until he lost his balance and plummeted from the tree, nearly landing on his brother.

“Ouch!”

“Fi?! What on earth were you doing up a tree?”

Fíli shook his head, but his brother was peering up into the branches, where Viska was smiling down at them, looking a bit dazed.

“Oh!”

Fíli groaned at the broad grin that crept across his little brother's face. “Don't say a word, _nadadith_ ,” he warned darkly. “Just help me up.”

The golden prince was back on his feet in time to reach up and catch Viska as she made her final descent. Catching her sturdy waist with strong hands, he set her down on the ground and stood staring into her eyes for a long moment. Mischief entered her sparkling eyes and she reached up and tapped the bead on one of his mustache braids, setting it swinging. He smiled and kissed her gently on the forehead, then stepped back as she tucked her scarf back into place and pulled her hood up. Kíli was leaning back against the apple tree, looking very smug for some reason.

“I take it you've been having an interesting conversation?” he asked with a smirk. Viska nodded, the edges of a blush still visible above her scarf, and he reached out to give her a brotherly hug. “Good. We'll need to be heading back to the house. Bombur appears to be baking a pie, and Thorin wants to leave early tomorrow morning. All we need to do now is get to the Mountain by Durin's Day, open the door, get rid of the dragon, and then we can retake Erebor and get you two married!”

Kíli looked very proud of himself...for about thirty seconds. That's how long it took Fíli to process exactly what his brother had just said and launch himself at the dark-haired prince, flushing in embarrassment. Viska leaned against the tree and laughed until she could no longer stand, tears streaming down her face. It took a while for the brothers to get sorted out, and a bit longer for her to catch her breath for the walk back to Beorn's home, and they never realized that the last little part of their conversation had been seen, if not heard.

 

* * *

 

Ori had intended to come back for more apples, but Bombur had assured him that there were plenty for the pie and to pack into their supplies, so he had decided instead to head back to let Visk know that he could come down out of the tree. He didn't realize that Kíli was there ahead of him until Fíli fell out of the tree and nearly squashed his younger brother. Ori stopped, realizing that he would not need to fetch them after all. Just as he was about to turn and head back to the house, though, Visk appeared, and the young scribe realized that the silent lad's face was uncovered...and he didn't really look like a lad at all. He looked more like a lass. A lass that Fíli reached out and helped from the tree, his hands lingering on her waist a bit longer than necessary. A lass that Fíli gazed at as though she was a dream, and kissed tenderly.

At that point, Ori turned and ran back toward the house, his mind spinning. Visk, a lass? And the young princes knew? He was certain that Thorin did not. There was no way the king would have knowingly allowed a lass on their quest. And Ori certainly wouldn't be the one to tell him. But he had to tell someone. So when he met Nori on the way back, and realized that his sneaky elder brother was the perfect confidante, he blurted out the entire story in a single breath. To his surprise, Nori simply nodded.

“Well, that explains some things,” he commented quietly. Then he shot a look at his young brother. “Don't go blabbing to Dori, though. You know he'll tell Thorin. I think we should keep this between ourselves for now. Don't even let the lads know that we know. She's a good fighter, lass or no, and an asset on this mad expedition. There's no need to be messing with what works.”

 

* * *

 

Dinner was warm bread smeared with honey, fresh fruits, and rich mead, with Bombur's apple pie to finish it off, and it appeared that even the Hobbit had enough to eat, as he only had a single small slice of dessert. Afterward, the Company settled themselves in front of Beorn's massive fireplace, smoking their pipes as the skin-changer told tales of the wild lands in which they now found themselves. He had just finished one such, and the Dwarrow were discussing what story of their own that they might offer in return, when Kíli spoke up abruptly, pointing at Bilbo with his pipe.

“Actually, our burglar had said that he might share his tale from when he got lost in the Goblin tunnels,” the prince commented quietly. Gandalf sat up straight, looking extremely interested and turning a sharp gaze on the Halfling. Trisk chuckled to himself as the Halfling suddenly looked a bit discomfited at being the center of attention, but the little fellow finally shrugged and nodded.

“I did say that,” he admitted. “I hope you'll forgive me a rather plain telling. I'm not nearly the narrator that Master Beorn is, so it will be simple and to the point.” He paused, looking deep in thought, then sighed.

“It was rather a horrible experience, if you must know. I slipped away when the Goblins were capturing you all – I suppose I was small enough not to be noticed, and I thought I might be able to do something to help if I managed to stay free. So, I ducked out of sight, and then tried to follow after. But I ran into a Goblin, and it attacked me. I lost my balance and fell off of the walkway, managing to take the Goblin with me. My sword was glowing, as Gandalf said it would in the presence of Orcs or Goblins. Something broke my fall, obviously, or I would have died. Still, I think I blacked out for a mo-”

“Fainted,” Nori whispered loudly. Several of the others laughed quietly and Bilbo only rolled his eyes.

“I _b_ _lacked out,_ ” he continued. “And when I woke, a strange, wizened creature with huge pale eyes was dragging the Goblin away, hissing and muttering to itself. So I followed for a while, using my sword as a bit of light until it guttered out, which I guess meant that the Goblin was dead. Then the creature found me, and I managed to convince it to play a game of riddles. If I won, it was to show me the way out.”

“And if it won?” Glóin asked curiously. Bilbo hesitated.  
  
“Well...it was going to eat me, like it was going to do with the Goblin.”

“And you agreed?!” Dori demanded. The Hobbit shrugged.

“What choice was there? If I didn't agree, it would have just killed me there and then!”

“True enough,” Dwalin granted. “So, you won?”

Bilbo nodded. “Eventually, but by sheer luck. I ran out of riddles faster than I thought that I would-”

“Isn't that always the way?” Bofur sighed.

“...and ended up asking what I had in my pockets. Gollum insisted on three guesses-”

“Gollum?” Ori asked in confusion.  
  
“I got the impression that that was what he called himself,” Bilbo explained. “Well, that, and 'precious.' So, I gave him three guesses, and he failed, so I won.”

“That wasn't quite a riddle,” Bombur pointed out quietly.

“But he had demanded that I 'ask a question,' so it was within the rules,” the burglar countered.

“So he showed you the way out?” Fíli asked, looking a bit doubtful.  
  
“Well, no. In fact, he was quite a sore loser, and started ranting and screaming about eating me anyway. So – I hid. And when he went through the tunnels looking for me, I followed him.”

“And he did not see you?” Trisk shared Fíli's doubt. Their burglar had proven himself light on his feet, but this Gollum seemed to have been a particularly wily creature. Bilbo glanced at him.

“I was very quiet, and stealthy,” he replied evasively. “So, I followed him, and slipped by the Goblins, and rejoined you on the slopes of the mountains.”

“Just in time to hear me being most ungracious about your character,” Thorin put in dryly. The Hobbit smiled slightly and shrugged.

“Well, you weren't really wrong, and I had been planning to leave...but I meant what I said. I want to help you on your quest, so here I am.”

“Hark on Master Baggins having adventures of his own without us! I almost feel left out,” Kíli pouted. Balin arched an eyebrow.

“As I recall, while Master Baggins was having his adventure, you and your brother were being dragged before the Great Goblin to be tortured simply because of being blood kin to Thorin. That wasn't exciting enough for you?”

Kíli gulped and shuddered at the memory. “Well, when you put it that way, I could actually do with a bit less excitement,” he replied.

Trisk resisted the urge to glance at his sister as flashes from those terrible hours in the darkness below the Misty Mountains danced through his mind. A gentle hand clasped his shoulder and he looked up to meet her understanding gaze. He nodded wordlessly and turned back to the conversation, but Thorin was emptying his pipe and glancing around at the Company.

“We will start early in the morning,” he informed them gruffly, “so I would suggest everyone get to sleep soon.”

Most of the Company settled down for sleep quite quickly, but the youngest Dwarrow (Ori, the princes, and the siblings from Emyn Uial) were still full of high spirits. Bilbo's tale had inspired them to start dredging up scary stories from their Dwarfling days, and it quickly turned into a competition of who could spook the others...until Bifur threw the end of a loaf of bread and smacked Ori in the back of the head.

“Oi, you lot! Some of us would like to sleep tonight!” Bofur protested irritably.

“Sorry!”

Kíli's apology would probably sounded more sincere if he hadn't been laughing merrily.

“Thorin, the next time yer nephews try to join us on a quest, I'm sendin' 'em home to yer sis tied in sacks,” Dwalin grumbled.

The king-in-exile sighed. “I'll probably help you, old friend.”

 

* * *

 

Viska could not sleep. She was tired, and she knew that she would regret it the next day if she did not manage to at least doze off, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Goblins. Sometimes, she was in the tunnels under the mountains. Other times, it was the raid on her home. Either way, leering Goblin faces haunted the darkness behind her eyes, and even trying to focus on the afternoon's conversation in the apple orchard failed to drive them away. Finally, she got up and crept over to the door. She had heard Beorn telling Gandalf that he would be ranging farther afield than normal, to try and clear the Company's path for the morning, so she felt certain that she would be safe so long as she stayed close to the house. Edging quietly out the front door, she took a seat on the edge of the porch, pushing her hood back and pulling the scarf down as she stared blindly out into the night. After only a few minutes, she heard the door open and close again, followed by a warm presence settling next to her. They sat in silence for a while, companionably close, before Fíli spoke.

“I think that the smell of apples will always remind me of this afternoon in the orchard,” he commented quietly. She smiled slightly, but did not reply.

“Nightmares?” he finally asked, a line of concern between his brows.

The Dwarrowlass shook her head, then shrugged. “Didn't even make it that far,” she admitted quietly. “I see them when I close my eyes, even before I fall asleep.”

“We shouldn't have told those tales,” the prince fretted. “Sorry.”

Viska chuckled. “Not because of the stories. I see them anyway. Not every night, but often enough. Some nights are just worse than others.”

“Ah.”

Another few moments of silence, and then he turned slightly to study her profile.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently, hesitantly. “You don't have to, but I want you to know that I am here, if you do. If not now, then later.”

She nodded noncommittally, still gazing out into the night, a thousand thoughts whirling through her mind. Perhaps it was time. She doubted that telling the full tale would banish the dreams, but it could hardly make things worse. And she had a feeling that she might be able to set his mind a bit at ease, while at the same time unburdening herself just a little. Finally, she adjusted her seat so she could lean against the rail post and met his patient gaze.

“Trisk told you about the raid.” It was not a question, merely a statement of fact, and he flinched slightly.

“I know you didn't want me to talk to-”

She raised a hand to cut him off. “No, I understand. What did he tell you?”

Fíli looked slightly ill as he thought back over what the silversmith had told him and Kíli. “Enough,” he replied grimly. “The Goblins were stealing females from settlements in the area. When your home was attacked, you went out dressed as a lad, but deliberately drew their attention away from a younger lass.”

Viska nodded, a small smile stealing across her face. “Tinsa. She was our neighbor, barely twenty. I used to watch her when she was tiny.”

The blond prince's face fell. “Was?”

“Was our neighbor, before we left,” the jewelry-maker clarified. “She survived, with only a few injuries.”

He smiled.“Thanks to you.”

She shrugged uncomfortably. “Only partially. She did not panic, she was just unlucky enough to catch their attention as she fled. She did not even scream, simply ran for the nearest fighter.”

“Which happened to be you,” he guessed. She nodded. “And you led them to the community hall?”

“There were too many of them, so I distracted them and let Tinsa hide. I knew I could not fight so many. So yes, I went to the hall. It was already alight, but they followed me in. I hoped to be able to bring the roof down on them, but the section that fell only caught some....” She trailed off, lost in the memory, seeing the sneering, vicious faces in her mind. She shuddered and glanced at his intent expression before looking back out at the night, feeling his warm hand close gently over hers. “They were raging, clawing at me,” she continued softly. “Shredding my clothing, pulling my hair out in chunks. One caught my scarf and started pulling. I nearly blacked out, but forced myself to lie still so they would think that I was already unconscious. Then, when they let go, I pulled free and cut it loose.” Now her back straightened unconsciously and she met his gaze. “Then I emasculated the closest Goblins,” she continued, matter-of-fact. “I kicked, bit, stabbed whatever I could reach. The hall was collapsing and I could not breathe. Then I reached the back door and pried it open. Trisk found me. I did not have to speak. He killed the few that made it to the door, then took me to the healers.” She fell quiet again, feeling the track of a lone tear as it crept down her cheek. “When I woke, my father was dead.”

Fíli was silent for a long moment, holding her hand tightly, the slight tremor in his muscles the only hint of the fury she had seen building in the usually gentle blue eyes. When he spoke, there was no inflection in his voice.

“They tried to rape you.”

She nodded, then reached out to touch his cheek briefly, a gesture of comfort and affection. “They tried,” she agreed. “And failed. And never will again. We received word a few days later that a group of Rangers had found their den and wiped the rest of them out.” She sighed and looked back out at the night. “The Rangers found the remains of dozens of females – Dwarf, human, even a few Elves. All brutalized and murdered.”

 

* * *

 

Trisk woke when Viska slipped back to her bed and was pleasantly surprised when she was able to fall asleep quickly. As soon as he was fairly certain that she was out, he crept quietly from his own bed and slipped out onto the porch. Fíli still sat there, staring out at the night, but he glanced back and raised a brow when he saw who had joined him.

“I actually expected to see Kíli,” he commented with a small smile, “but he must actually be out for the night.”

Trisk nodded, studying the golden prince for a moment before he sighed and shook his head.

“You both think you are so easy to overlook,” he said with a grin. “Did you honestly think that I wouldn't notice?”

Fíli blinked, looking startled. “Sorry?”

“Subtlety is not your strongest attribute, Fíli,” the silversmith replied. “Of course, I doubt that most of the others notice. I am more attuned to attention paid to my sister.”

The prince seemed to pale slightly in the moonlight. “I'm sorry, Trisk, I-”

The lad from Emyn Uial held up a hand to halt his stumbling confession. “Do not apologize. I am not angry. Viska is grown, and she knows her own mind.”

Fíli cocked his head, his brow furrowed in confusion. “You're not going to warn me away?”

Triskel laughed and shook his head. “Maiden's Choice. It is not my place.” Then he smiled, a cold, humorless smile that Viska had once told him looked disturbing on his usually amiable face. Judging by the prince's reaction, she had been right. “I will promise you, however. Break my sister's heart, and you will have to deal with me.”

 

* * *

 

The Company woke early the next morning to find breakfast waiting, along with their packs, now filled with provisions of honey, dried and fresh fruits, and cakes that Beorn had provided. The skin-changer himself was nowhere to be seen, but Gandalf assured them that he would be there to see them off.

“He was quite busy last night, making sure that the beginning of our route was clear,” the wizard told them with a smile. “I doubt any Orcs linger nearby after seeing the great bear roaming.”

“Wish he could come with us,” Bofur muttered. “Might come in handy, a powerful beast like that. Be nice to have such on our side for once.”

“I don't think that he is entirely on our side,” Balin replied. “But his enemies and ours are one and the same, and so he is willing to help us for now, for which we ought to be grateful.”

“Oh, I am!” the miner assured him hastily. “Master Beorn's been very kind. Just thinkin' how much easier the road might be.”

“Until Kíli annoyed him and Beorn decided to eat him!” Fíli commented with a grin, ignoring his brother's indignant protest as he crammed the last few bites of honey-smeared bread in his mouth and hoisted his pack.

Beorn was indeed waiting for them outside, along with the small herd of ponies that called his land home, a dozen beautiful black and white animals that nuzzled affectionately at the Dwarves' coats and stood patiently as riders and gear were loaded. With only twelve mounts available (plus a large gray horse for Gandalf), the Company loaded extra riders on some, and extra gear on others. Fíli and Kíli shared a mount, while Ori rode behind Nori and Bilbo with Bofur. The skin-changer loaded them down with many more water skins than they were used to carrying, but he glared at Dwalin when the big warrior started to protest.

“There is abundant water between here and the forest, but you must not drink anything that you find once you pass under those trees,” he warned them sternly. “You will need these skins. Fill them before you enter the wood, or you may not survive to see the other side. And be sparing with the food, for you dare not leave the path or you will never find it again. Be sure to turn the ponies loose before you enter the forest – they will return home. Fare you well, Dwarves of Erebor, and know that you have a friend here, if you should pass this way again.”

 

And so the Company of Thorin Oakenshield left the house of Beorn and rode east, toward the dark gloom of Mirkwood and the dragon-haunted realm of the Lonely Mountain.


	14. Into the Wood

 They had left the safety of Beorn's boundaries at midday, but remained unmolested, no sign of the Orcs that were surely hunting them. Bilbo Baggins was deep in thought as he rode behind Bofur near the back of the Company, recalling his tale the night before. It had been something of a relief to share the events in the Goblin tunnels, even if only partially. He remembered a saying of his mother's, something along the lines of “a burden is made lighter by the sharing,” and had to agree. Of course, he had not told his friends everything – and he still wasn't sure why not. His hand was once more fidgeting at his jacket pocket, and he frowned, pulling it away and staring at it in frustration. Why did the golden ring fascinate him so?

 

* * *

 

_As he moves to follow the sneaking creature, a glint of metal catches his attention. Stooping, he finds a plain gold ring, heavy and smooth in his hand. He tucks it absently in a pocket and continues on, forgetting about it within moments. It is only later, as he fumbles desperately for another riddle in this game for his life, that his fretting fingers find the cool metal once more, causing him to blurt out a question, “what have I got in my pocket?”. And so the game is won, quite by accident and a twist of the rules, but the danger is not yet over. The creeping Gollum reneges on his part of the bargain and Bilbo flees into the tunnels. Just when he thinks he is cornered (and likely dead), the ring slips onto his finger and the world goes a little dimmer. Gollum passes him by and the Hobbit gradually realizes that he is invisible. The ring has saved his life, and given him a way out, for he follows the creature until he sees sunlight and can follow his friends to freedom. They are surprised, and he finds himself strangely reluctant to explain what has happened, although Gandalf watches him closely. In the end, he offers a vague, evasive answer and reaffirms his commitment to the Company. And they are satisfied, but the burden of the gold ring settles in his mind as much as in his pocket as the journey continues._

 

* * *

 

Lost in his reverie, it took the Halfling a moment to realize that he was watching a massive, dark shape keep pace with the Company at the edge of sight, barely visible as the sun began to set. It was unmistakably Beorn in the form of the bear that they had first encountered, and Bilbo felt a little safer knowing that their new friend ranged nearby.

 

* * *

 

It took three days of travel to cross the open plains, the looming shadow of Mirkwood growing ever more ominous. When they finally reached the edge, late afternoon on the third day, they found themselves reluctant to enter.

“This forest feels sick,” Bilbo declared flatly, a look of discontent on his face. “Can we not go around? Even Beorn advised against going through.”

“It's too far, and would take too long,” Fíli replied glumly, eying the trees with distrust.

“The forest stretches two hundred miles North, and twice that South,” Gandalf added, though the look on his face made it clear that he did not like the look of the wood any more than the others did. “North would take you close to the Grey Mountains, and they have not been safe for many a long year. South lie the lands of the Necromancer. The lands East of the Misty Mountains are not so gentle as the West, my dear Bilbo. There are no safe paths here.”

“Only a choice between dangers and the length of the road,” Thorin added in a low rumble, resting a hand on Fíli's shoulder. “No, Master Burglar, this is our road if we hope to reach the Mountain by Durin's Day. But you are right. I would take another if I could. We will camp here tonight and enter the wood by morning's light.”

Trisk turned to help his sister unload gear from their ponies, catching a glimpse of Gandalf walking cautiously along the first part of the Elven path. Something about the wizard's hesitant steps and reluctant posture made the hair on the back of the young Dwarrow's neck stand up and he stopped to watch. Within a few moments, Gandalf strode back out to where the Company was making their camp and setting the ponies loose to rejoin the skin-changer. Nori was just starting on the wizard's horse when Gandalf spoke up.

“Not my horse!” he interrupted anxiously, startling the thief as he grabbed the reins. “I'll need him.”

“What?” Kíli asked, looking confused.

“Gandalf, you aren't leaving us?” Bilbo protested.

“I do not wish to, but I must.” He swung into the saddle, reciting an urgent list of cautions and warnings as he turned the horse's head back the way they had come. “Stay on the path – do not leave it, or you will never find it again. Fill your water skins before you enter the forest. You will find a stream, but heed Beorn's warning and do not touch the water. Take the stone bridge. Remember, this is not the Greenwood of old. The very air of the forest is heavy with illusion and will seek to lead you astray. Keep the map and key safe, and I will meet you at the overlook, before the slopes of Erebor. Whatever you do, do not seek to enter the Mountain without me!”

And then he was gone.

 

* * *

 

Viska had been under the eaves of Mirkwood, once Greenwood the Great, for less than half a day, and she was already tired of it. Judging by the route of the path, Elves were completely incapable of thinking in straight lines. Didn't they know that they were the shortest distance between two points? Why must the trail wander and meander all over the place, rather than guiding them directly from the gate to the far side of this cursed, gloomy, darksome forest? It was difficult to remember that the sun had been bright in the sky when they entered the forest, that autumn was passing beyond its borders, bringing cooler breezes and brisk nights. Inside the wood, the light was dull and dim, the air thick and heavy. Time did not move, no breeze stirred. All seemed choked to a halt, resenting the intrusion of the Dwarven company, throwing any sound they made back at them like a hateful echo. The Elven path was hard to follow, broken and twisted as it was, and the webs that clung to the trees filled them with unease.

The lass's mind felt clouded, her thoughts thick and slow. She clung ever closer to her brother as they made their way through the forest, nearly treading on his heels until he stepped aside to push her ahead. The Company had started out chatting, telling jokes and tales and singing songs, but before the first night fell, they stopped. The dreary atmosphere of the wood had stifled even Bofur's upbeat spirits. Dwalin and Glóin were the first to become irritable and snappish, to no one's surprise, but then the others began to follow suit. Soon, Óin was insisting that he could not breathe, and Dori was keeping up a steady litany of complaints as they walked. Nori kept reaching for the hilts of his knives, sharp eyes darting to and fro. Balin did not speak, but seemed to grow wearier with every step, shoulders slumped and head bowed. Bifur started at every new sound, his boar spear a dangerous obstacle to those around him. Bombur muddled along disconsolately at the back of the column, forbidden from snacking as they traveled, since they did not know how long the provisions would need to last.

 

The first night descended like a black curtain, smothering the Company in oppressive darkness so that even the night vision of the Dwarves was of little help. Glóin had started a fire in the middle of the path as the light failed, and they sat huddled around it as they ate a scanty supper. There was little conversation, for all of them felt the sensation of being observed, and they were loathe to talk much beyond what was needful. Viska leaned against Trisk's side, more for comfort than for warmth, blinking owlishly in the firelight as she studied the forest around them. After a long moment, she realized that the forest was was staring back – dozens of shining eyes reflected the flames in the dense undergrowth, though nothing more than the eyes could be seen. The Dwarf lass shuddered and shrank back into the comforting presence of her brother and companions.

“You see them, too?”

The soft question in her ear made her shiver and reminded her that the fair-haired prince sat on her other side, both comfort and distraction. She nodded silently, trying to ignore the way his warm breath on her cheek made her pulse race.

“Oi! Mahal's balls!”

Kíli ducked against his brother, waving his hands wildly as he tried to fend off huge dark moths that were fluttering around his head. Within moments, the air above the Company was filled with the flapping insects, smacking into their faces with hand-sized wingspans and thumping them about the ears with heavy bodies. Then the bats appeared, massive black flying rodents, diving after the moths. Ori yelped as one brushed by his face and Thorin swore loudly.

“Douse the fire! We'll never get any sleep this way!”

Trisk lunged forward, kicking dirt over the small fire to smother it. Darkness engulfed them once more and the silversmith stumbled back to his seat, settling in on Viska's left.

“Is it even worthwhile to keep watch?” Nori asked quietly. Thorin sighed.

“It will do precious little good,” he admitted, “but still, we'd see any light approaching, or possibly hear something. Glóin, take first watch, then Dori, then Nori. Everyone, get some rest.”

“Aye,” the merchant agreed. Viska heard him moving around and could imagine him setting the large ax near to hand. Yawning, she leaned back into the huddle of warm bodies, smiling as she settled against a broad chest that rumbled with the familiar low humming. A moment later, a strong hand came to rest on hers, giving a reassuring squeeze as she sank into sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Easy, Visk, it's alright. Wake up.”

The soft murmurs and a gentle hand on her shoulder brought Viska to full wakefulness, struggling out of a twisted, nerve-wrenching nightmare. The lass blinked in the first glimmers of light, sitting up abruptly. Fíli was at her side, kind blue eyes fixed on her face. To her other side, Trisk was stirring, while Kíli snored steadily, despite his head having slipped off of Fíli's shoulder to rest on a pack. The Dwarrowmaid caught her breath, tucking her scarf into place automatically.

“Alright, then?” Nori called softly from the far side of the fire. She nodded, shivering more from memory than the light chill in the air.

_Nightmare. Sorry if I woke you._

The thief chuckled. “I was awake anyway, so you didn't bother me. And I daresay you weren't fidgeting any more than Kíli usually does, so I'm surprised that Fíli even noticed.”

The elder prince grinned and shook his head. “I didn't, until I got a fist in the gut,” he admitted wryly. “Were you fighting off Goblins? Or bats?”

_Spiders_ , Viska answered with a shiver, glancing up at the thick webs in the trees above them.

“Now there's a lovely thought,” Trisk groaned as he stretched out cramped muscles and got to his feet. “I'd rather avoid the spiders, if at all possible, thanks.”

The rest of the Company was stirring with muttered protests, as Fíli stood, offering Viska a hand up. Kíli snored on in determined slumber and the elder prince fixed him with a narrowed gaze before reaching down to slip the pack out from under his brother's head. The dark-haired prince's skull hit the path with a soft thump and one brown eye slitted open to glare at the blond reproachfully.

“Not fair, _nadad_ ,” the archer grumbled, pushing himself up to a sitting position. “I was sleeping.”

“You were faking,” Fíli corrected with a smile, tossing the pack to him. “Sun's up, time to rise.”

“I should at least get to sleep until Thorin is up,” Kíli retorted. A packet containing one of Beorn's travel biscuits smacked into his lap and the lad turned in surprise to see his uncle smirking at him from across the campsite.

“Thorin is up,” the king commented lightly. “Now, get moving.”

Kíli grinned and Viska found herself smiling behind her scarf. The affectionate exchanges between Thorin and his nephews were few, and oft time buried beneath sass and long-suffering sarcasm, but it was clear to anyone who knew them that they were bound by love.

Trisk tossed the lass her pack, then hoisted his own, turning to Nori curiously.

“Did the eyes disappear when the fire was out?” he asked, glancing at the surrounding foliage. The thief shook his head.

“There weren't quite so many when I took watch,” he replied. “But they didn't leave until just before it started getting light. Creepy little buggers. Couldn't identify half of them if I tried.”

 

The trip through the forest settled into a gloomy monotony and the days passed in depressing gloom. The Elven road was in poor repair, so they had to keep a sharp eye out lest they wander off of it, and the thick canopy filtered the light to a dim murk with never a break. The Company's spirits sank lower and lower as the days passed with no end in sight and their provisions dwindled. The supplies that Beorn had provided went quickly, despite the Dwarves trying to stretch them out as long as possible. They had no idea how long it would take them to escape the wood, and even then they would need to get to Laketown before they could replenish most of the supplies. The only possible game that they had seen were strange black squirrels, and the one that Kíli had been able to bring down had tasted horrific when they roasted it. They could hear other game, certainly, but everything else was too fleet of foot for even the Hobbit to spy, hiding in the shadows and underbrush, making odd scuffling noises and grunts.

The nights were no better. After a second experience with the moths and bats, they no longer even tried starting a fire, but sat in the deep darkness and dozed as best they could. They traded off keeping watch, for what good it did, staring into blackness where they could not even see their hands in front of their faces. The only things visible after the sun set were the eyes, all shapes and sizes, that watched them from the depths of the forest (and occasionally the trees, which occurrence had Bilbo yelping in dismay and waking half of the Company one night). More than once, Viska dozed off leaning against Trisk's back, only to wake before the first glimmers of dawn to find herself snugged into Fíli's side, her hand enclosed in one of his and tucked to his chest.

 

They found the enchanted stream late on the fifth day, a sluggish, meandering flow of dark water. The stone bridge that Gandalf had described ended abruptly near the apex of its span, a great chunk taken out of the center that was too wide for Dwarf or Hobbit to leap. The Company milled around in agitation on the bank, searching for another way across. Kíli was eying the thick vines and roots that draped between the trees and crossed the waterway, but Viska caught sight of a dark shape on the far shore and pointed it out to her brother.

“There's a boat,” Trisk announced, peering through the gloom. “It's not very big, and I can't tell if it is tied, but we might be able to draw it across.”

“Shoot it, perhaps?” Dori suggested.

Kíli shook his head. “We don't have anything that would be long enough and light enough for an arrow to carry.”

Fíli was eying the boat and calculating the distance in his head. “Does anyone have a metal hook?” he asked quietly, taking a coil of thin rope from his gear. After a moment of rummaging, Nori produced the heavy hook that usually held one of the straps of his pack. The golden-haired prince tied it to the end of his rope and hoisted it thoughtfully.

“You might want to let Visk give it a shot,” Dwalin offered with a small smile. “His aim is a bit better than yours, lad.”

Fíli grimaced and nodded, handing the rope and hook over. Viska hefted the hook and stepped forward as the others backed away. Spinning it several times to get some momentum, she released it and watched the metal arc over the stream, only to splash down just short of the dark shape on the far side.

“Try again,” Bilbo urged. “Just a bit more and you'd have got it. I daresay you'll be safe enough from the enchantment just pulling the rope out of the water.”

She eyed him doubtfully, but drew the hook and rope back onto the bank and wiped the metal off on her coat before raising it to spin once more. This time, the hook landed in the boat and the lass drew the rope back carefully until it caught. She gave a few short tugs to make sure it was secure, then started pulling in earnest. At first, the boat did not move, and Bilbo groaned.

“Perhaps it _is_ tied,” he fretted. “It's hard to see in this gloom.”

“We might still be able to get it,” Fíli replied, stepping up to grab the rope and add his weight to the pull. Kíli and Trisk joined in quickly, and when the boat came loose, it dumped the four of them in an undignified pile on the bank of the stream.

“I'm not sure we know one another quite well enough for you to be sitting on my lap,” the prince teased with a tiny smile as he helped Viska to her feet.

The boat was small, but looked sturdy, the broken tie rope dangling from the prow. After a quick consult with Balin, Thorin decided to have them cross in small groups.

“How exactly are we going to get it across, though?” Bilbo asked. “There are no oars.”

“Ki, give me your rope,” Fíli ordered shortly. “Anyone have another hook?”  
Dori gave up one of his this time, and the elder prince tied the rope to it and hurled it across the stream into the branches of a tree on the far side. Once it was secure, he handed the end of the rope to his uncle.

Thorin crossed first, with Dwalin pulling the rope to haul them across and Balin holding on to the first hook. Once they reached the bank, the adviser secured the hook in the wood of the boat and tied the other rope to it so they could draw it back across. Bilbo, Fíli, Kíli, and Óin were in the next load, followed by Dori, Ori, and Glóin. Nori, Bofur, Trisk, and Viska went next, leaving Bifur and Bombur last, in spite of the large cook's complaints at being last (again). Bifur climbed in with his cousin with no comment beyond a shake of his head and pulled the boat across quickly. As it bumped against the far bank, the toymaker scrambled out and stepped easily from boat to ground. Bombur, however, found himself suddenly unbalanced when his turn came and his step out became a stumble, which ended with him toppling toward the water.

“Bombur! _Nadadith_!”

Half of the Company lunged to catch the hefty Dwarf, knowing that they might never get him out of the river if he fell in. With their combined efforts, they managed to steady the red-haired cook...but not before the damage was done. One grasping hand had caught Fíli's coat and pulled the young prince off-balance so that he slipped in the soft earth at the side of the sluggish stream and slid in with a yelp.

“Fi? Fíli!”

The heir scrambled to his feet, standing waist deep in the murky flow, one hand held out in warning. “I'm alright, Ki, stay back! Toss me a rope, carefully. I don't want you falling in, too!”

Bifur tossed the end of the rope he carried and braced himself as the young Dwarf caught it and started hoisting himself up the bank. After only two steps, Fíli faltered, blinking in confusion and shaking his head as if to clear it.

“Ki? Uncle? I don't....”

He trailed off as his uncle and brother lunged forward, pulling him the rest of the way up the bank and easing him to the ground. He was unconscious by the time they set him down, chin slumped on his chest. Kíli crouched next to him, checking him over frantically as Óin hurried to his side.

“Fíli? _Nadad_?! Wake up!”

“Easy lad,” the healer cautioned, moving calmly as he checked the young prince's vital signs. “He's breathing, his heartbeat is strong and steady. He is simply asleep.”

“Asleep? Why?”

The archer's eyes were wide with panic, and Viska could feel terror pulsing through her heart. Trisk placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, his gaze fixed on Kíli.

“The water. Gandalf and Beorn both said it was enchanted.” The silversmith's voice was even and calm, an anchor for the two youngest of the group. “Óin says he is sleeping. Perhaps it will wear off?”

 

* * *

 

_He wanders in an unfamiliar forest, alone, listening to lilting, musical voices drift through the trees on the sunlight. The path beneath his feet is clear and well-maintained, easy to follow as it winds through the lush green foliage. The cheerful calls of birds drift down from the canopy, and he can see the undergrowth rustle occasionally as small animals dart by on their unending errands of survival. The young Dwarf closes his eyes and inhales deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of fresh air, rich earth, and green growing things...and if there is the faintest hint of other, fouler smells beneath the fair, it is noted only by the deepest part of his enraptured mind._

_When he opens his eyes again, it is night. The trills of songbirds have been replaced by the low calls of hunting night birds, and the movements of the nocturnal hunters on the ground are stealthier and harder to see. Moonlight filters down through the leaves, and stars are visible through small gaps in the canopy as branches sway in the night breeze. The musical voices are louder, closer, raised in merriment, and he can see flickering firelight through the trees. Delicious aromas drift through the air, teasing his nose and making his stomach grumble – roasted meats and vegetables, savory stews, freshly baked bread. His mind conjures a brief image of the bread slathered with honey, as it was at Beorn's table, but one of the musical threads worms its way through the thought – Beorn? Who is Beorn? It is certainly not a Dwarvish name – and the vision slips away. The smell of the stew is so thick he can nearly taste it, and it brings another vision, this one of laughing green eyes beneath a gray hood as bowls of stew are eaten around a campfire. But again the unearthly music dances through his mind and drives the image away, and he lets it go._

 

_* * *_

 

“We will camp here tonight,” Thorin decided, his eyes never leaving the slumbering form of his eldest nephew. “Perhaps he will wake in the morning.”

“And if he doesn't?” Kíli challenged, eyes snapping as he knelt by his brother. The king-in-exile met the younger lad's gaze in understanding and shook his head.

“Then we will carry him, lad, and count ourselves thankful that it is Fíli, and not Bombur, who sleeps. He will not be left behind.”

The archer's posture relaxed and he nodded to his uncle, looking slightly ashamed. “I am sorry, I-”

“You are worried about your brother, I know. Get some rest, Kíli. We will make a litter in the morning, if we must.”

The Company's spirits had been low since entering the forest, but now they sank even lower as they made a sketchy camp on the path and settled in to watch their princes. One slept, oblivious, his thick mane drying in a tangle about his face. The other, dark eyes shadowed with worry, sat beside him, one hand playing restlessly with a loose golden braid. Trisk watched in silence for a long moment before pulling Fíli's pack over and rummaging in it briefly. When he found the worn metal comb, he pressed it into Kíli's hand and closed the younger lad's hand over it. Kíli nodded in thanks and undid the damp braids so he could begin combing the leaves and twigs out of his brother's hair, humming softly under his breath.

 

* * *

 

_Finally, he has reached the source of the music, the lights, and the mouthwatering aromas. A wide clearing opens before him, filled with torches, a blazing bonfire, and tables laden with dishes both familiar and exotic. Tall, graceful figures move among the tables as though they are dancing, long dark hair falling in shimmering curtains. A regal Elf with eerie blue eyes sits at the head of the largest table, wearing a carved crown twined with autumn leaves and bright berries. He reclines at his ease, looking languidly arrogant as he watches his subjects, a goblet of wine held loosely between long fingers. The Dwarf lad feels an instinctive shiver of distrust at the sight of the Elven king (for surely it must be he), remembering tales of abandonment, but the negative emotion does not linger. How could it, in such a place? The king does not acknowledge the arrival of the travel-weary Dwarf, nor do any of the other Elves. Their conversations, dance, and song continue without interruption as he pauses at the edge of the clearing, staring in wonder at the feast that lies before him. How long has it been since he ate enough to fill his belly? A deep, clear part of his mind is screaming for him to approach with caution, to be wary and suspicious, but the hypnotic music soon silences the tiny corner of clarity and he starts to step into the glade._

_Another song catches his attention then, and his head turns, searching for the source. It is a low, rich sound, and it cuts through the lighter, captivating music woven by the Elves. Where their melodies twist sinuous paths through his mind, this new one sings to his heart and soul, resonating in his very bones. It is the sound of home, of family, of cherished memory, of plans for the future. It is a song that he cannot ignore, delivered by the voice of the one who has stood at his side for nearly eighty years. A face appears in his mind, laughing brown eyes above a wide, cheeky grin, and a smile creeps across his own face in response, even as he has to search for a name. At last it, comes._

Kíli. The grinning Dwarf is Kíli. And he is my...brother? Yes, my brother. My little brother. He is Kíli, and I am....

_His eyes widen and for the first time, fear creeps into his heart as he struggles to remember the combination of sounds that means_ him _. It is Kíli's voice that helps, for he has heard that voice calling his name every day since the younger lad first spoke._

Fíli! I am Fíli!


	15. Spiders & Lies

The first creeping light of dawn teased Kíli's eyelids and pulled Dís's younger son from the thin sleep he had managed to find. Sudden memory flashed through his mind and he scrambled up to a sitting position as he turned toward his brother, hoping to see the cornflower-blue eyes flicker open. But Fíli remained still, eyes closed, chest rising and falling steadily as he snored on in deepest slumber. Kíli's stomach sank and the smile that had already been growing faded immediately as his breath hitched and he closed his eyes against sudden stinging tears.

“Wake up, _nadad_ ,” he whispered, an edge of anger and desperation in his voice. “C'mon, Fíli! Wake up!”

“Kíli, easy.”

The soft, rough voice was only vaguely familiar, since its owner spoke so rarely. The dark-haired archer sighed and met Viska's worried, sympathetic gaze as she placed a calming hand on his. It was only then that he realized he had been shaking his brother's shoulders sharply, trying to wake him from the enchanted sleep. Groaning and scrubbing a hand over his face, Kíli slumped back on his heels, straightening Fíli's coat.

“I think we're going to need the litter,” he stated quietly, glancing across his brother to meet the Dwarrowlass's gaze. Her eyes looked slightly bloodshot beneath the hood, and he knew that she felt just as helpless and worried as he did – she just could not be as open with her concern. He got to his feet, then offered her a hand up, using the gesture to conceal a reassuring squeeze of her hand that was returned with a tiny nod. Trisk joined them as the rest of the Company began to stir, grumbling softly as they came completely awake. The three young Dwarves roamed a short way down the path, gathering materials for the litter, and returned to find Óin examining Fíli as the others finished getting ready to leave.

“So far as I can tell, the lad is simply asleep,” the healer finally stated, allowing an eyelid to slip back into place and conceal the blank white gaze. “An enchanted sleep, but just sleep. There should be no danger in moving him.”

Thorin nodded absently, his gaze on his nephew's face as Kíli smoothed the golden hair off of Fíli's forehead. Of the two princes, Fíli was the quieter sleeper, but this eerie stillness was beyond even him. Save for breathing, the lad did not move. If Kíli left his brother's hand resting on the broad chest, there it would remain until someone deliberately moved it again. Only Fíli's eyes moved, rolling restlessly behind his lids in dreams, but even that was sporadic rather than constant.

“We have the litter ready,” Dwalin murmured, his dark eyes sympathetic as he watched Thorin and Kíli at the young prince's side. Thorin sighed, then visibly shook himself out of his thoughts, clasping a strong hand on the archer's shoulder as he raised his eyes to meet his old friend's gaze. The king nodded.

“Get him on it. We will carry him turn and turn about until he wakes. And he _will_ wake,” he added fiercely, sapphire eyes daring anyone to gainsay him. None did. Dwalin set the blanket-covered litter down next to the fair-haired prince and eased the lad into place gently, tucking his arms in at his sides and smoothing the flyaway wisps of his hair. Kíli settled the scabbard with its twin blades at his brother's feet, then knelt between the handles of the litter. Without a word, Triskel moved to the other end, taking up the handles near Fíli's head, and they lifted the prince's sleeping form. Thorin nodded shortly and moved to the front of the Company, the ever-present Balin at his side as they resumed their journey. Dwalin marched behind his brother, his gaze watchful. Bilbo and Óin came next, with Trisk and Kíli close on their heels with the silent burden. Viska kept pace with Kíli, steering him with a gentle hand on his shoulder when his focus on his brother distracted him from the path. Ori was just behind them, his gentle face creased with concern as he watched the two move like mourners at a funeral. Nori and Dori flanked their youngest brother like they expected him to be the next victim of the forest, but no one could blame them. Bombur trundled along looking deeply depressed, still blaming himself for the previous day's misadventure. His brother and cousin offered occasional quiet comments, or reassuring signs, but the rotund cook rarely replied. Glóin brought up the rear, scowling suspiciously at every rustle of sound in the underbrush, a firm grip on his ax.

 

* * *

 

_He stands at the edge of the clearing, fingers buried in his hair, feeling the neatly woven braids, his brother's voice drowning out the enchanting song of the Elves._

I am Fíli! But who is Fíli? Kíli's brother?

_Brother to Kíli, certainly. He knows that. It is an immutable part of his soul. But who else? What else? Son? Son of..._

Dís! And Torvi.

_He can see a kind-faced dark-haired Dwarrowdam, her blue eyes shining with love, and a fair, bearded Dwarrow with Kíli's warm brown eyes. Dís and Torvi. Another part of the foundation of_ Fíli _. He concentrates again. There is another tie, different...sister-son._

Sister-son of Thorin.

_Another dark-haired Dwarrow, stern and proud, with sapphire eyes. Thorin. And from there the memories trickle back a little more easily._

Son of Durin, Thorin's heir. This is _me_ , this is _Fíli_. Crown-Prince-in-Exile. Erebor. Erebor is home. We are going home. We go to face Smaug. Fíli, Kíli, Thorin...Torvi? No, _Adad_ is gone, dead over seventy years. Dís? _Amad_ is back in Ered Luin, our home-in-exile.

_Other faces fill his mind, some familiar as family, others newly-met._

Balin, Dwalin. Óin, Glóin. Cousins, friends. Dori, Nori, Ori. Bifur, Bofur, Bombur. Dwarves of Ered Luin, soon to be of Erebor. Trisk, Visk. Sons of Thorin's old comrade. Gandalf the Grey. And a...burglar? Halfling? Baggins! Mister Baggins, of the Shire! We are going to meet him. Or have we already?

_There is still confusion in his mind, and there is something else, another name teasing his memory...someone tied closely to his heart, but the bond is so new that the enchantment has blurred his sense of it. Green eyes, a gentle smile, an impression of defiant strength, and a low voice. The face will not form, but his soul knows this other and weeps for the loss of the sounds, the name, that is_ Her.

 

* * *

 

After a few hours, Dori and Nori took over carrying the litter, although Kíli was reluctant to give up his place. He finally agreed to walk to the side instead, fingers twisted into the sleeve of Fíli's coat as he alternated humming that haunting, wordless song and talking quietly to his brother of everything and nothing. Trisk and Viska walked on the other side of the litter, the latter occasionally reaching out to steady it unnecessarily, never noticing the sympathetic looks that Nori cast her way.

The midday break was the quietest since they had entered the forest, the small group of younger Dwarrow not even trying to liven the atmosphere without their leader. Kíli fretted by his brother's sleeping form and ate little. Thorin sat by his nephew, a rare occurrence, and spoke to him in a deep rumble of patient reassurance. Óin checked on the golden prince before they started off again, but could report no change, beyond the fact that he seemed to be dreaming steadily now, his eyes roving behind his lids, though he was otherwise still.

Bofur and Viska took up the burden of the litter after lunch, then Dwalin and Bifur for the final shift of the day. When they stopped for the night, they settled the unresponsive lad in the middle of the path and made their sketchy camp close by. Again, Kíli ate little and promptly made his bed next to the pallet, draping a blanket over Fíli and tucking it in carefully. Trisk and Viska joined him in silence as Bilbo, Bofur, and Ori huddled nearby.

Kíli stretched out on the ground, his head pillowed on his sleeping brother's shoulder, as the light faded from the forest. He appreciated Trisk and Viska's quiet support – the more so because they were not actively trying to cheer him up. Instead, Viska was a constant presence, seeking and offering comfort in equal measure. Trisk was there for both of them, talking quietly of the past, the quest, the future – anything to fill the quiet with a deep hum of conversation. Thorin joined him as the others drifted off to sleep and the dark-haired heirs of Durinbegan to hum once more, the old lullaby a constant thrum in their minds as they struggled to reach their lost kin, to pull him back from the distant shore where he walked in dreams.

 

* * *

 

_The feast has faded, the Elves are gone. Only the fierce-eyed king remains, and some of the hauteur has faded from his face. He suddenly looks weary, as though mourning an ancient loss, as he stares at the goblet in his hand, swirling the dregs of the wine. Fíli watches him silently for a long moment, knowing that he cannot be seen, but unsure whether the Elf might be able to detect him through other means. Is either of them actually here? Or is this simply a vision?_

_The king stands abruptly, and the icy, regal air settles on him like a cloak. Here is a pride to rival Thorin's, and the young prince hopes never to see their wills clash. The Song of the Mountain rumbles once more, voiced this time by both brother and uncle, and Fíli blinks in surprise. The Elf king is gone. He is alone in a forest clearing, the light and colors swiftly fading, and memories tease the edge of his mind. The Shire, the Trolls, the Orcs' pursuit, Rivendell – surely there is more, but he cannot grasp it, not quite. But he knows Kíli is there, just out of sight, and he and Kíli have always been stronger together than apart. So he reaches into his soul and takes hold of the bond that ties them together. There are many bonds there, many souls tied to his. Kinship, friendship, and one is infinitely precious, but too new, too fragile, to bear the burden of his struggling memories. The bond of brother to brother is seventy-seven years strong, reverberating with the Song of the Mountain and the sound of his_ true _name, his Khuzdul name, and so he seizes it like a rope and begins hauling himself back to the world, hand over hand, inch by painful inch._

 

* * *

 

Triskel had the final watch of the night, and the first light of the morning was tiptoeing through the forest when the young fair-haired Dwarf stirred for the first time, blue eyes blinking in confusion as he shifted on the litter. Trisk got to his feet and stepped over to help Fíli to a sitting position, nudging Kíli as he did so. Kíli woke with a start.

“Ki?”

“Fíli! You're awake!”

Trisk had barely gotten the older prince sitting up before the younger dove into his brother's arms, laughing with relief. The joyous sound roused the rest of the camp, and Thorin lunged for the lads, pulling them into a tight embrace. The members of the little family clung to one another for several long minutes, the rumble of Thorin's voice meshing with Kíli's excited murmurs and Fíli's soft questions. The rest of the Company watched their royal family with expressions ranging from relief to broad grins and the occasional happy tear. Soon, Fíli was waving his uncle and brother off with a small laugh, saying that he needed space to breathe.

“Actually, I think I need to stand,” he added, looking pained. “I feel like I haven't moved properly in an Age.”

“Only a day and two nights, _nadad_ ,” Kíli corrected with a grin, giving him a hand up. The others crowded around as soon as the young Dwarrow was on his feet, clapping him on the back as he smiled and greeted each of them.

 

* * *

 

_A single glimpse of those leaf-green eyes, and the final memories fall into place with a snap._ Viska _. The newest bond on his soul, the missing piece of his past, present, and future. The force of the knowledge makes him physically stagger, drawing concerned looks from his uncle and brother, and he has to take a deep breath to regain his composure. His memories are complete once more._

 

* * *

 

Four days after the crossing of the enchanted river, Viska sat on the twisted root of a gnarled tree, watching the Hobbit scramble awkwardly into the canopy. She wished she could be the one climbing toward the sky, but the highest branches would be too thin for even the lightest of Dwarves, so she was denied the possibility of a breath of fresh air, or glimpse of the sun. Instead, she huddled in the dim gloom of Mirkwood and watched her companions bicker. Thorin stood apart, staring out into the tangled reaches of the forest. Óin had his head buried in his hands and was grumbling softly to himself as Glóin glared around at their surroundings, ax in hand. Balin was leaning against a tree, looking half asleep, while Dwalin looked positively murderous, his dark gaze falling on everyone indiscriminately. Bombur was pouting quietly, while Bifur was arguing with Bofur in Khuzdul, their voices too low for the lass to catch the words, but even the cheerful miner was snappish and short-tempered as he replied to his cousin. Dori's amiable expression had become one of irritation, and Nori was glowering at the ground as he toyed with one of his knives. Ori looked miserable.

“We're lost, aren't we?” the little scribe moaned. “We can't even tell which direction we're going. We'll never get out of here!”

“Would you shut it for once?” Kíli snapped abruptly, shoving the other Dwarf out of his way as he stalked by to rejoin Fíli, Trisk, and Viska. “This place is gloomy enough without your whining!”

Ori stumbled and sat down on the ground as Nori turned on the dark-haired archer, Dori right behind him.  
  
“Oi, who d'you think you're shoving, you spoiled brat?” Nori yelled, lunging forward. Fíli intercepted him, pushing him back.

“Watch yourself, thief!” the golden prince snarled, blue eyes flashing. “That's my brother!”

“Maybe that Elfling you call 'brother' should be a little more respectful-”

Kíli's fist connected with the thief's jaw at that point, and then Trisk and Viska were wading in to try and separate the two sets of brothers. Insults were flying in Khuzdul and Common, and Trisk was growling at Fíli and Nori, snatching the knife away from the latter. Kíli's elbow caught Viska in the eye as she pulled him away from a recovered Ori, then Dori's hand clamped on her arm to yank her to the side. She lashed out instinctively at the older Dwarf.

“QUIET!!”

Every member of the Company froze as Thorin's command cut through the thick air. They turned bewildered faces to their leader, blinking as some of the confusing haze lifted from their minds. Orcrist was in the king's hand, and his gaze searched the forest as he hissed a warning.

“We are being watched.”

 

*** * ***

 

Fresh air washed over Bilbo's face in a soft, cool breeze and the Hobbit closed his eyes to breathe it in with a small smile. The sun was warm above the forest, although the air carried the crisp chill of Autumn. For several long moments, the Halfling was still, basking in the sunshine and letting the wind tease his curls. When he finally opened his eyes, he was greeted by a seemingly unending ocean of trees that reached out to the horizon in all directions. He frowned in disappointment, straining to see any landmark beyond the forest, and finally found a winding line where no trees stood that might indicate the Forest River. Following the line of the possible river, his eyes widened as he made out the distinctive shape of the Lonely Mountain in the distance, beyond a wide expanse of lake and heath. A small whoop of delight escaped him and he shouted down through the branches to the Company far below.

“I can see the Long Lake and the Lonely Mountain! We got a bit turned around, but I know where to go now!” He cocked his head, listening for a response, but no reply came from the Dwarves on the ground. “Thorin?” he called, slightly concerned as he moved down from the top branches and tried to peer down toward his friends. “Balin? Bofur?” He held his breath, but no answering call came back, though he could hear shuffling movement on the ground. A spike of alarm ran through the burglar and he clamped his mouth shut on any further calls, concentrating instead on making his way down the tree as quickly and as quietly as he could manage.

The small clearing where he had left the Dwarves was empty, the thin grass flattened and the ground torn up in several places. A glint of metal turned out to be Visk's slender sword, and the sight of it lying discarded on the forest floor sent a chill down Bilbo's spine. Several of Kíli's arrows lay nearby, as though they had been dropped from his quiver, and a small knife that he thought might belong to Fíli was embedded in the trunk of a tree. The Hobbit drew his Elvish blade without thought, spinning in panic at the sound of something moving through the trees. The great brown bulk of an unidentifiable animal was barely visible, moving away from him, dragging a smaller white bundle behind it. Hesitating for only a moment, the Halfling jammed the golden ring from the Goblin tunnels onto his finger and hurried after the unknown creature, a silent shadow slipping through the forest.

 

_Spiders_. Bilbo hated spiders – even the smallest variations of the eight-legged crawlers. He happily left them alone outside, but any that he found in his Hobbit hole usually met quick ends. These spiders, however, had bodies the size of Wargs, and legs twice as long as he was tall. And they were _talking_. He was huddled behind a tree, watching the spider that he had followed as it hoisted the bundle it had been dragging and hung it in a clump of similar white packages. Bilbo's eyes narrowed and his heart lurched as he realized what he was seeing. Wrapped in spider silk, fifteen Dwarves hung from a cluster of branches, still and unmoving. Dozens of spiders surrounded them, arguing in scratchy voices about which of the captives to eat first. Several had gathered around the largest cocoon, obviously Bombur, and the Dwarf inside was beginning to move, wriggling and struggling weakly. The Hobbit swallowed as his mind raced. Gandalf was not here, and all of his companions were trapped. Help would have to come from him – from the semi-reluctant adventurer who still missed his quiet hole in the Shire. He wanted to protest, to run and never look back, and hope to make his way to safety hrough the dismal forest. But that would mean abandoning the Dwarves to certain death – proud Thorin, kind Balin, cheerful Bofur, irrepressible Fíli, mischievous Kíli, silent Visk – and that could not be borne. Bagginses were not adventurers, but they _were_ loyal, and the Took side of him would not even contemplate leaving his companions. Instead, he checked that the ring was secure on his finger, sheathed his Elvish blade, and reached out to fill his pockets with stones. Then he raced off to put some distance between himself and the spiders before he started chucking the stones about madly, shouting nonsense as he went. Behind him, he heard a great stir of bulky bodies and agitated voices as the spiders reacted. As soon as he had used all of the stones, Bilbo went silent and hurried back toward the lair, avoided the arachnids as they darted to investigate his noise and their damaged webs. Scrambling up a tall tree for the second time in that long day, the Hobbit removed the ring, drew his sword, and started cutting the thick ropes of silk that held the nearest wrapped Dwarves. Fortunately, the layers of webbing that clung to the branches slowed the speed of the cocoons' descent – the Halfling did not think he would have the time or strength to cut each down and lower them carefully to a branch. Instead, he focused on cutting loose as many as possible as quickly as possible. He could hear them grumbling and moving around as they hit the ground, so at least the impact was waking them. Just as he cut the last Dwarf loose, a great shape lunged out at him and he lashed out with his blade, scoring the spider across the mass of its eyes. The beast fell back, screeching in pain.

“It stings!! It stings!!”

Bilbo swung again, hearing a satisfying crunch as he cut through the creature's head and it toppled. He turned a satisfied look on the weapon that Balin had once called a letter opener.

“Sting. I think that will make a fine name.”

 

* * *

 

The sensation of falling woke Viska from a thick, troubled doze, and she found herself bound in a mass of strong, sticky fibers. She struggled and cursed softly, trying to hear if anyone else was nearby. After a moment, a soft voice spoke in her ear, and the binding started to loosen as it was cut away.

“Easy, Visk. One second. There you go!” The sticky mess was pulled away and she struggled to her feet, picking great clumps of web off of her clothing as Trisk steadied her. Around here, the rest of her companions were doing the same, looking groggy and cloudy-headed. The Dwarf lass's mind felt unfocused, and she stared at her brother for a long moment.

“Spiders.” He answered the question that she had not been able to form, pointing up at the thick webs overhead. “They attacked us, stung us to knock us out, and wrapped us up for dinner.”

She shuddered, reaching for her sword as she searched the surrounding forest, but her hand met an empty scabbard. _Dropped it_ , she remembered with a pang. Instead, she drew the hunting knife strapped to her thigh as a familiar yelp of fear sounded in the trees above them.

“Bilbo!” Bofur yelled, hefting his mattock and staring around for the Hobbit.

“Spiders!” Fíli called in warning, drawing his blades as he moved to cover his brother. Kíli threw down his bow in disgust when he realized that his quiver was empty, drawing his sword as the first arachnid charged out of the trees. Dwalin charged one with his war hammer already in mid-swing, as Orcrist flashed in Thorin's hands. Óin's staff whirled over his head, Trisk's mace smashed a spider aside before it could reach Bofur, and Bifur had his spear jammed into a mass of eyes. Faintly, over the battle cries and sounds of the fight, new voices rose in the thick forest air, light and fluid, speaking a language that sounded like water over smooth stones. Then Viska tripped over a rope of webbing and stumbled. Before she could regain her feet, something clamped onto her ankle and began dragging her swiftly over the forest floor. Twisting frantically, she managed a look over her shoulder to see that she had been captured in the pincers of one of the great spiders. She screamed involuntarily, struggling to reach a weapon. Her sword was gone, dropped in the initial attack. She had buried her hunting knife in a spider's head shortly before being grabbed. She was down to the tiny blade she had taken from the troll hole, snugged into a sheath at the small of her back, and she could not reach it.

“Visk!!”

“Kíli!”

The archer was charging after her, his hands empty of sword or bow, and she could hear the others shouting for them further away, but they did not come. Kíli lunged and caught her reaching arm, planting his feet to try and yank her free of the giant arachnid's grip. Viska yelped as she was pulled between the two like a child's tug-rope, but she wrapped her hand around Kíli's arm and held on, kicking at the spider with her free foot. Just as she connected, an arrow lodged in the creature's face and it let go abruptly, sending both of the Dwarves tumbling. A tall she-Elf with fiery red hair stood behind them, her bow slung back on her shoulder, hands full of twin hunting knives as she fought another spider. Kíli offered Viska a hand and pulled her to her feet quickly, the Dwarf lass yelling a warning as she glanced over his shoulder and spotted yet another spider advancing on them. He turned, shoving her behind him.

“Give me a blade!” he demanded, shooting a look at the Elf. She ignored him, intent on her battle. Viska finally managed to snag her Troll blade and backed up to get a running start as the dark-haired prince snapped at the Elf. “Hurry!”

“If you think I'm giving you a weapon, Dwarf,” she sneered, “you're mis-”

“Kí!” Viska cut in, running toward him, “Toss me!”

He dropped to his knees automatically, hands locked in front of him in the pose that Trisk had taught him and his brother. Launching herself from the ground, Viska stepped into his hands so he could give her that extra boost of momentum, sending her over his head to bring her tiny blade down on the spider's mass of eyes with all of her strength. The blade crunched through the creature's carapace as the many legs collapsed beneath it. The young jeweler stayed in place as it sank to the ground, both hands still wrapped around the hilt of her dagger, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Then Kíli was there, strong hands on her shoulders, then coaxing her fingers loose.

“Easy, little sister. You got it. Let go, Viska, it's over.”

A pale, long-fingered hand came into view retrieving the blade from the spider's corpse. Viska turned to protest, only to find the fire-haired she-Elf staring at her with an inscrutable expression.

“Come with me.”

Moving warily through the tangled undergrowth, the two Dwarves found themselves back with the rest of their group – who were surrounded by armed, angry-looking Elves. A tall male with intense blue eyes appeared to be in charge, snapping orders in their fluid tongue as the others began divesting the Company of their weapons. Fíli and Triskel were the only ones being actively restrained, but they calmed slightly as their younger siblings came into view. The she-Elf shoved the two youngest Dwarrow back into the group and turned to talk to the leader. Viska staggered slightly on her bruised ankle, leaning on her brother for a bare moment to catch her balance. Nearby, an increasingly frustrated Elf was divesting Fíli of his extensive arsenal.

“So far, they've accused Thorin of stealing Orcrist, and insulted Glóin's wife and son,” Trisk murmured. “And I thought _Dwarves_ were supposed to be the rude ones.”

Viska snorted a laugh, then froze as the she-Elf's gaze landed on her. The Dwarf lass tensed as the redhead said something to the flaxen-haired leader, causing his eyes to narrow as they focused on Viska's face. He snapped something to the guard closest to her and she suddenly found herself being pushed through the crowd to stand before him. Protests from behind her made it clear that her brother, Fíli, and now Kíli were being held back by their captors. The Elf stared her for a long moment, then reached down and pulled the scarf from her face, prompting another round of shouts from her friends that only ended when Thorin bellowed at them in Khuzdul. Viska glared at the Elf steadily as he studied her face. Finally, he raised an eyebrow at Thorin.

“I was not aware that Dwarves took their women into battle since the fall of Erebor,” he commented dryly. Viska felt every muscle in her body tense and she shut her eyes as despair flooded through her.

“We do not.”

“And yet here one stands,” the Elf smirked, seizing Viska by the shoulder and turning her to face the Company. She risked only a quick glance before keeping her eyes fixed on her boots. The sheer fury on Thorin's face was terrifying. Her brother was pale with fear, restrained by an Elf with a wicked-looking blade. Kíli was also pale, staring at his uncle with wide eyes. Fíli's face was completely still, his eyes closed as if in pain.

The explosion, when it came, was carefully controlled and all the more frightening for that, because she could hear the icy fury behind his words.

“She is no part of this Company. Nor is her lying brother,” Thorin growled, shooting a look over his shoulder. Trisk did not react, his attention on her, but several of the other Dwarves blanched. Viska choked and Fíli's eyes flew open to latch onto her face and his hands moved almost imperceptibly.

_Trust me_ _._

Then Thorin was glaring at her in disgust and she could not meet that stone gaze for long. Finally the Elven leader sighed and turned her over to the she-Elf to be searched.

“Take them to the dungeons, and separate them,” he ordered. “Except for the leader. He will face the king.”

 


	16. Bargains & Defiance

 Bilbo had gotten separated from his friends once he freed them, being busy dodging the giant arachnids himself. Running through the forest was not conducive to keeping the best track of the locations of the Dwarves, and it was only once the spiders had been driven off that he was able to spare time to wonder where he had left them. Creeping back through the trees, still with his ring firmly in place, the Hobbit was rather surprised to find the entire Company the prisoners of Elves. As Beorn had warned them, these were not the gracious, mild-tempered folk of Rivendell. The Woodland Elves seemed fiercer as they escorted the Dwarves through the forest at a pace that was punishing for those who had gone long with little food and water. Bilbo was forced to follow along the trail behind them, as the thick undergrowth to the sides was too thick for him to keep up without crashing through with all the subtlety of a charging oliphaunt. So the Hobbit jogged along behind the last of the Elven scouting party, trying to breathe silently. He was starting to believe that he would not make it to their destination when the next turn in the path revealed the end of the trees and a wide clearing split by the rush of the Forest River. A graceful bridge arched over the expanse of the river, drawing the eye along the well-maintained path (and of course it was maintained _here_ ) to the looming gates of the Hall of the Woodland Realm. A row of trees rose like columns along the front, and Bilbo stopped in his tracks to stare in wonder. So caught was he in awe that he almost lost his opportunity to slip through the doors behind the Elves – and who knows how things might have turned out.

But he did not miss his chance. Moving on feather-light Hobbit feet, he ghosted along behind the large group as they moved into the vast cavern that housed the king's hall. There, the little burglar was momentarily at a loss, for his friends were splitting up. The Elf leader moved off in one direction, with two guards escorting Thorin along behind him, while the rest of the Dwarves were ushered in another. Bilbo was surprised by the lack of protest as their king was led away by hostile forces, but then he caught a flash of motion as Thorin's hands moved in the subtle gestures of that mysterious Dwarven sign language, and he understood. They wanted to protest (Dwalin fairly vibrated with the effort to restrain himself), but their leader had ordered them to cooperate for the moment, and so they begrudgingly allowed themselves to be led away. The Hobbit hesitated, torn between the two groups, then finally decided to follow Thorin. If he was being taken to see the Elf king, he would probably rejoin the rest of the Company afterward...and the presence of an unexpected, invisible ally might prove beneficial.

 

* * *

 

Balin sat in his cell, shoulders drooping in resignation. This was it, then, the end of their quest. There would be no triumphant return to Erebor, no rebuilding of their home. They would simply vanish – no word would be sent to Ered Luin, so their people would never know what had become of them. Bombur's wife, and Glóin's, would raise their Dwarflings alone, while Dís held Durin's folk together as best she could. She was the last adult of the line in the Blue Mountains, the last outside of the Iron Hills, where Thorin's cousin Dáin ruled as Lord. And she would have to bear the burden alone, bereft of brother and sons, but he knew Dis, and he knew that she would stand and lead her people with all of the pride and strength in her blood. He sighed. Pride and strength were indeed the legacy of the blood of Durin, sometimes leaning too strongly toward the pride. He did not know Thranduil, but he knew of him, and knew that he was as proud and stubborn as any Dwarf. He would offer Thorin a deal, some bargain for their freedom. Balin did, however, know Thorin, and he knew that his king would not take it. His hatred of the Woodland King ran too deep to be easily swayed. Two great pillars of pride and stubborn will, they would dance around one another and clash in a shower of sparks, but neither would bend.

 

* * *

 

Thorin struggled to compose himself as the leader of the Elven hunting party led his escort through the twisting halls of the Woodland Realm. He wanted to be as calm as possible when he was brought before the Elven king, which meant burying his anger at Kulvik's children. The corridors inside Thranduil's halls were as roundabout as the forest path outside, and the trip seemed to last forever, but finally he stood before the carved wooden throne. A rack of antlers from what must surely have been the Father of All Elk surmounted the king's seat, which itself was set several feet above the floor. The Dwarf wondered idly what the Elf might be compensating for, and felt a smirk flicker across his lips. The small group came to a halt, the two guards stepped aside after brief bows and a languid wave of dismissal from the form on the throne. The leader murmured something in their fluid tongue, then strode from the hall after merely giving a polite inclination of his head. That, as much as the resemblance between the two, was enough to give the Dwarf lord the identity of his captor. Dismissing the princeling from his thoughts, Thorin focused his gaze on the king.

The last time that he had seen Thranduil had been the day that he and his father had come before him to seek aid for the Dwarven survivors, the day the Elf king had turned them away without a thought.

 

* * *

 

_The Dwarf prince enters the Great Hall of the Woodland Realm with his back straight and head held high, walking at his father's right shoulder. They are weary and filthy, Thráin still reeking of the smoke from the fires within the Mountain. Thorin is reluctant to let his siblings out of his sight, but he is heir, and his presence is required, so he leaves them in the care of his cousins' mothers – Tila, wife of Fundin, and Srôfa, wife of Gróin. Frerin gravely assures his elder brother that he will watch over little Dís. For her part, and to her brothers' dismay, the lass is completely engrossed with the Elves, staring wide-eyed at their surroundings._

_Now, he walks the length of the hall, feeling very young and ill-at-ease among the age-old eyes in ageless faces. This realm was old before his ancestors set foot in Erebor, before Thráin I led their people from the horror that had befallen Khazâd-dûm, and the lad feels the weight of every year on his young shoulders as he approaches the throne. Unearthly blue eyes seem to gaze into his soul, and he barely holds himself from a flinch as he follows his father's example and bows. Not too low – just a courtesy from the princes of one kingdom to the king of another, but oh, how it rankles his pride! Thranduil inclines his head incrementally, his smooth face expressionless. When he speaks, his voice is cool, emotionless and without inflection._

_“Thráin, son of Thrór, and Thorin, your heir. I would bid you welcome to my halls, but I do not want to give you a false impression. What do you seek?”_

_Thorin tenses at the insult, sapphire eyes sparking, but his father's hand on his arm warns him back._

_“We seek your help, my lord Thranduil,” Thráin replies bluntly. The Elf king's direct question has set the tone, and the Crown Prince will not waste time with flowery words and political maneuvering when his people are ill and hungry. “Our people are driven from Erebor by the great firedrake, Smaug, and we have no supplies – no food or medicines. We have ill and wounded, aged and children. We seek only to move on from your lands and find a place to rebuild our lives.”_

_“And what payment do you offer for this help?”_

_Thráin stiffens in shock, his hand tightening its grip on his son's arm. A tiny smug smile teases the corners of Thranduil's lips as he watches them._

_“What payment do you offer?” he repeats, as though they are dense pupils in a schoolroom. “An heirloom of my house was held in your Mountain – have you brought it out with you? And where is your king? Surely such aid as you seek should be discussed between kings.”_

_“My father is indisposed.”_

That _, Thorin thinks in the privacy of his own mind,_ is one way to put it _. The king alternates between near-catatonia and raging demands to be allowed to return to the Mountain, as he has since Thráin dragged him out. The last Thorin saw of his grandfather, Thrór was heavily drugged to prevent him injuring himself or others._

_The Elf smirks._

_“I see. Unfortunately, I will not be able to help you.”_

 

_Fundin and Gróin are waiting when they return from their audience with the Elf king, and it is the first time that Thorin sees his father looking truly broken. Even when he realized that Princess Ara was among those lost in the Mountain, the Crown Prince remained strong for his children and his people. Now, his dark blue eyes are hollow and haunted as he speaks to his cousins._

_“He will not help us. We are to leave these lands in the morning. He will not even grant us passage through the wood to the Great River.”_

_“We never should have come here,” Fundin growls. Gróin, ever the even-tempered one, shakes his head._

_“Where else could we have gone,_ nadad _? Dale is destroyed, and Esgaroth can barely help the survivors from the city, much less the Mountain.”_

_“We should have turned straight for the Iron Hills. Náin would have helped us.”_

_Thráin nods heavily. “Perhaps we should have, but we have many injured and little food. I had hoped...but no matter. It is too late to head for the Iron Hills. Smaug holds the lands between us and safety in that direction. No, we must go South, toward the lands of Men, and seek work and aid. Perhaps eventually, we will turn West. The Blue Mountains still hold some of our folk. Will our wounded be able to travel, Gróin?”_

_“They'll have to, won't they?” The healer sounds more resigned than angry, shaking his head in despair. “Those who can will help. We may – no, we_ will _lose some. We'll just have to see that we lose as few as possible.”_

_Fundin's steady gaze is on Thráin's face._

_“The king will not be pleased.”_

_The string of Khuzdul curses that come in reply tell the lad just how angry the elder prince really is. No, Thrór will not be pleased. But nothing pleases the king any more, and the survival of their people is more important than the notions of a king who is slipping ever further into madness._

 

* * *

 

Long years had passed since then, years that had left their mark on the Dwarf – body, heart, and soul. The Elf, however, had not changed. Of course, he was immortal, but Thorin had half-hoped to see some sign of time, or perhaps of guilt, on that ageless face. Surely there should be some sign of the suffering inflicted upon the Dwarves of Erebor. But there was nothing. He sat on his throne looking just the same as he had that day over a hundred years ago. The ember of fury in the Dwarf's breast burst into new flame and he stifled it with difficulty, meeting those unearthly blue eyes with a steady glower. Thranduil returned his gaze, face expressionless.

“I am told that you were found wandering my lands without leave,” the Elf king commented with a raised eyebrow. “What exactly were you doing in the forest, Dwarf?”

“Starving, _Elf_ ,” Thorin replied shortly. The elegant brow dropped and the eyes darkened almost imperceptibly as Thranduil rose to his feet and descended from the raised throne.

“But why were you in the forest in the first place?” he asked, cocking his head minutely as he studied the Dwarf's face. The king-in-exile met his stare, but did not speak. After a long moment, a tiny smirk crept across the Elf king's face.

“You think I do not know who you are, Thorin, son of Thráin?” he commented, an edge of anger in his otherwise even tone as he paced around the prisoner. “You think I don't know why you are here? Oh, no doubt some would imagine that a noble quest is at hand – a quest to reclaim a homeland and slay a dragon.” Contempt dripped from every syllable and Thorin bit his tongue, determined not to react to the discourtesy. “I, myself, suspect a more...prosaic motive. Attempted burglary, or something of that ilk.”

Thorin refused to react, waiting for the Elf to get to the point. Thranduil studied him, eyes narrowing.

“You have found a way in,” he guessed shrewdly. “You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule, the right to command the armies of the Dwarves against the dragon. You would steal the King's Jewel. The Arkenstone.”

“Is it stealing to recover what is mine?” the Dwarf lord snarled in response, wishing he could knock that smirk off of the Elven king's face. “I seek to take Erebor back from the dragon that slaughtered my people. To do that, I need the Arkenstone to raise the armies of the Seven Families.”

“Of course, and that is the only reason that you seek the stone.” Thorin growled low in his chest and Thranduil held up a hand to forestall any further protests. “It is precious to you – I understand that,” he stated, his voice placating. Then he met the Dwarf's gaze and his face took on a new intensity, his eyes burning. “There are jewels in that Mountain that I, too, desire,” he explained. “White gems, of pure starlight.

_Ah, and now we come to it_ , Thorin thought with a wry smile. A memory teased the back of his mind – his father disturbed by an uncomfortable exchange between the King of Mirkwood and the King Under the Mountain over the gold owed for the crafting of a magnificent mithril piece with just such jewels. Thrór had raised the price after the work was done, keeping gems and all when Thranduil refused. Thráin had murmured of bad blood, but his father had not listened.

“I know the gems of which you speak,” he whispered. The Elf nodded sharply.

“I will let you go, if you but return what is mine.”

The Dwarf raised an eyebrow. “A favor for a favor?” Politics. Mahal, how he hated politics.

“I give you my word,” Thranduil replied. “One king to another.”

Thorin barked a laugh as those phrases brought his temper raging back to full fury. He turned on his heel abruptly, taking several steps away from the Elf king before he halted, staring out over the depths of the halls.

“Your word?” he mused, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Your word?” He laughed again, a loud, hateful sound, and turned back to the Elf's shocked face. “I would not trust Thranduil, the _great_ _king_ , to honor his word should the End of Days be upon us!” he spat, all of the despair and anger of the past years welling up within him. “You lack all honor! I have seen how you treat those you call friends! We came to you, starving and homeless, with women, children, and wounded. And you turned your back. You turned away from the suffering of my people, and the inferno that destroyed us! May you die in dragon fire!”

Thranduil had frozen in place after the first sentence, his face paling with shock, but at the last comment, anger flushed his features and flashed in his eyes as he advanced on the Dwarf.

“Do not speak to me of dragon fire,” he growled, his face bare inches from Thorin's own. “I know its wrath and ruin. I have faced the great serpents of the North!”

And before Thorin's startled gaze, the glamour of Thranduil's flawless features faded away, revealing melted flesh and raw tendons. The image was gone as quickly as it had come, and the Elf straightened and turned on his heel. That contemptuous expression was back on his face as he climbed the stairs to his throne.

“I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon, what the siren call of the Arkenstone would bring upon his kingdom. He would not listen. You are just like him.” He waved a languid hand and the guards seized the Dwarf. “Stay here, if you choose, and rot. A hundred years is a mere blink of the eye to an Elf. Perhaps another will slay the dragon, or the next fool to claim kingship Under the Mountain will be more amenable to cooperation. I am patient. I can _wait_.”

 

* * *

 

Nori was feeling rather amused, having realized that he felt at home for the first time since leaving Ered Luin. Bilbo's smial had been welcoming and comfortable of course, but a residence clearly made by a race other than Dwarf, a wood-lined hole rather than one carved of stone. Rivendell had been even worse – spacious and airy, with the influence of the natural world in every architectural detail. Goblin Town had been ramshackle and squalid, made up of tumbledown shacks and rickety walkways, and Beorn's massive home had been on scale with his large size. Prison cells, however, seemed to be much the same between Dwarf and Elf, and the thief had been in enough of those to find a strange sense of the routine in his current situation. Oh, the lines of the walls were a bit wrong, and there was no semi-friendly guard to chat with to pass the time, but the sensation of being locked behind a barred metal door was familiar. The difference was that his brothers and companions were also imprisoned this time, and that did not set well with him. There had been times in the past when he had _wished_ Dori into just such a cell, mostly to get his older brother off of his back about the activities that helped put food on the table, but not Ori. Never Ori. His youngest brother was too gentle to spend his days this way. The two elder Dwarrow had always intended for Ori to have a better life, an easier life, than theirs. He would be a scholar and historian, earning the respect of their people and winning himself a place among the elite of the kingdom. And he had used that against them in the end, pointing out that the best historians wrote of what they themselves had experienced, so what better way to earn his place than to be the one who could write of the quest to reclaim their homeland? Nori had excused himself from that conversation early on, unwilling to take either side since he could see both points of view. He had probably been more surprised than Ori when their eldest brother finally capitulated. And this was where their quest had ended, in the depths of the dungeons of the Woodland Realm. Sighing, Nori glanced at his lockpick kit and considered giving it another try. After a long moment, he shook his head. His kit was no good for Elven cells apparently – he had already broken three of his picks and made no progress on the lock. His particular skill set was not going to get them out of this predicament. With a shake of his head, he tucked the kit back into one of the many pockets of his coat and settled in to wait.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo found the Elven dungeons by following the guard who took Thorin down after his disastrous interview with the Elf king. As soon as the guard had walked away, the Hobbit removed the gold ring and crept up to the Dwarf king's cell. “Ah, Thorin?”  
“Master Baggins. You do seem to show up most unexpectedly,” the Dwarf commented, looking angry and weary at the same time. “Where is the rest of the Company?”

Bilbo shook his head. “You're the first I've found, but I heard the Elf say to separate you. I'll starting locating the others, then I'll see what I can do to get you out,” he promised. Thorin nodded wordlessly and the Hobbit started away, only to stop a moment later when the Dwarf whispered harshly to him.

“Master Baggins! Triskel and Visk – there is no need to find them! They are no longer a part of the Company. They can stay here until they rot.”

Bilbo only nodded, not voicing the dozen or so questions running through his head. He had missed a good portion of the confrontation in the forest, so he had no idea why the leader of the Company was so angry with the two young Dwarves. He certainly didn't plan to leave them behind without getting the story from someone a bit calmer.

 

* * *

 

The prisoners bothered Tauriel. The Dwarves had been trespassing on her king's lands, but she did not see why it had been necessary to cast them into the dungeons for an indeterminate length of time. Would it not have been easier simply to deposit them on the borders with a warning and let them be on their way? But one did not question Thranduil of Mirkwood, especially when one was Captain of his Guard, a mere Silvan Elf of much lower rank and birth. So she obeyed his orders, as relayed by his son Legolas, scattering the Dwarves through the levels of cells, separating them to prevent plans and plotting, much less any ill-advised escape attempts. Not that any such would have gotten very far – the cells of Mirkwood had held worse than Aulë's folk, and were built to withstand greater strength than any single Dwarf could bring to bear. Even the gruff, bald bear of a warrior that glared at her so balefully when she made her rounds would make no impression on the doors of the Elven cells.

And, after the first night, they mostly stopped trying. The bald one still glared, muscles flexing with tension as he watched the Elven guards pass by. Their leader, Oakenshield, glowered from beneath lowered brows and was silent when she passed, evidently unaware that she could hear his rants from several halls away. The one with the odd hat sang strange, poignant songs occasionally, his voice a rich baritone that filled the halls near his cell. The wildest-looking of the party, who appeared to have the remains of an Orcish ax lodged in the front of his skull (and how had he survived _that_?), preferred to make his displeasure known with hand gestures. Tauriel had been aware that the Dwarves had a sign language that surpassed basic battle commands and scouting communications, but she had never realized that it was quite so extensive...and there was no doubt in her mind that most of what the wild-eyed prisoner was saying was rude at best, so she merely arched a brow at him and continued on her way.

The young ones bothered her the most. The lass, the scarred auburn-haired warrior who had carried the mace, the beardless, braidless youth, and the fair-haired one with the braided mustache. They all brooded deeply. The last paced his cell ceaselessly, an anxious look in his gentle blue eyes that made the Elf want to ease his worry for his friends. But the open face shuttered at her approach, and he leaned against the wall of his cell, meeting her gaze with a steely look, all sign of vulnerability gone. Unsure why a defiant look from a Dwarf would make her feel guilty and uncomfortable, Tauriel hesitated, but finally spoke.

“Your friends are well.”

She offered the information as a gesture of peace, but it hung in the air between them for a long moment before he nodded briefly in acknowledgment. He did not speak, and she did not know what else to say, so she simply returned the nod and hurried on.

 

* * *

 

This was a quest best left to younger Dwarves, and Óin had known it before ever leaving Ered Luin, but that had not stopped him. Thorin was his king, crowned or not, and the healer had never even considered standing aside from the attempt to reclaim their home. He was the one who had recognized the portents, after all, despite scoffs and disbelief from the others. Thorin had come to him for advice after the encounter with Gandalf in Bree, asking if the spiritual realm held any answers, and he had been surprised to be able to answer in the affirmative. All of the signs had pointed to the time being right for the expedition, though he had warned from the beginning that it would be perilous, and there would be few willing to follow. So the summons had been sent, and the loyal had answered, including nearly the entirety of the Line of Durin. Óin had told them that he was going along as healer, and to keep his younger brother in line, but the truth was that he would not have missed it for the world. A chance to see Erebor once more, to hear the Mountain sing. And so he had joined the Company, tending their wounds and treating their ills (fewer than he had expected so far, though more than he would have liked), and they drew ever closer to the Lonely Mountain. Only to by waylaid by Elves. The healer sighed and rested his head back against the wall of the cell. The future was yet to be determined, and there were no portents to be read in the depths of the Woodland Realm, so he would simply wait, and hope, and try to remember that the potential prize was worth the long, weary journey.

 

* * *

 

Kíli hated being confined. He didn't mind caves and stone – he was a Dwarf, after all – but he preferred to able to move about as he pleased. The food was plentiful, but he was bored, and he had too much time for thinking. The elves had separated them so that he only occasionally caught the distant echo of a familiar-sounding voice. He thought he had heard Bofur singing a while ago – one of his sadder ballads, as though the captivity was wearing on the miner's cheerful spirit. And Thorin had definitely been bellowing at some point, but he hadn't been able to make out what was said. There had been nothing for a while now. The young prince was sitting on the bench in his cell, running his fingertips over the carved runes on a smooth stone when he suddenly realized that he was being watched. Glancing up, he saw the fire-haired Elf from the forest – the one who had saved him and Viska, then revealed Viska's secret to the entire Company. He frowned at her in irritation, palming the stone.

“What do you have there?” she asked, her face impassive.

He shrugged. “Nothing you need take,” he replied numbly. “Just a talisman, from home. My mother gave it to me so I'd remember my promise.”

“What promise?”

“That I'd come back to her.” He stared at it, suddenly feeling very young, and very far away from home. Then he remembered he was being watched, by an Elf, and shrugged the feeling away, quirking a brow at her. “She thinks I'm reckless.”

One arched eyebrow lifted. “And are you?”

“Nah...well, maybe. A little.” He sighed and pocketed the stone again, standing and moving toward the cell door. “Can you at least tell me if my kin are all right? My brother, the golden-haired one with all of the knives? The lass?”

“All of the prisoners are well,” she replied, looking a little insulted that he would think otherwise – which probably meant that she was extremely insulted, given how much emotion most Elves seemed to show. “They are mostly quiet, but...Oakenshield rages. Against my king, and against those he calls traitors and liars?”

Kíli sighed and buried his face in his hands. Apparently, Thorin was not going to let this go. “The lass and her brother. She started out with us claiming to be a lad. My brother and I figured it out a while ago, but we had Thorin fooled until you opened your big mouth.”

 

* * *

 

Dori, son of Nif, was less concerned about being locked up by elves, and more concerned with the fact that he had no idea where his brothers had been taken. The entire Company had been split up, so far as he could tell, taken off down branching passageways one and two at a time. Fíli and Kíli had struggled viciously when their guards moved toward different corridors – from the way the elder prince had worked one hand carefully toward his boot, the leather-worker suspected that he had managed to keep at least one of his blades from detection. The Elves had had to knock Trisk out when the red-haired she-Elf disappeared with his sister – and for all his disapproval of their charade and her mere presence, Dori could only shudder with sympathy at the panicked look in the silversmith's hazel eyes as she was taken away. He had lost track of Nori early on, but Ori had been at his side until the young scribe and Óin were pushed down a branching corridor. He had tried shouting for his brother, but either Ori was too far away to hear, or he could not shout loud enough to make his replies heard. For the first time, the straitlaced dwarf found himself hoping that his middle brother had been able to hold on to the lockpick set that he knew Nori carried (promise or no).

As the eldest of the three sons of Nif, Dori had been looking out for his brothers their entire lives. His own father had never made it out of the Mountain when Smaug attacked, and he and his mother had struggled through the first years of the Exile until she met the scout who became Nori's father, only to die in a skirmish with bandits before ever reaching Ered Luin. Ori's father, a kind merchant who had treated all three lads like his own sons, had been carried away by a virulent fever when the youngest brother was a Dwarfling of seven. As the only constant in their young lives (save their mother, and she was busy working to keep her sons fed), Dori had become the primary caregiver and worrier. Then Nif had died. Having recently completed his apprenticeship, Dori had been able to start work on his own, but they had struggled for years, and he could not really blame Nori for turning so quickly to shadier dealings. He just wished his brother could have straightened himself out once the worst was over. At least he knew that the thief would defend Ori to his last breath – he had already proved that on this quest. But now, he had no idea where either of them was, the thief or the scribe. He had failed them, and it made him want to rage or scream or weep. But he did none of those things. Instead, he sat quietly on the floor of his cell, humming softly to himself, a wordless ancient melody from the distant past.


	17. Vows & Contemplation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for the sheer number of POV jumps this chapter (and last). There is still not a whole lot going on, so hopefully it won't be too confusing. Also, I am aware that I don't have the best grasp of Neo-Khuzdul syntax, so I have tried to be sparing in my use of it. Translation is at the end of the chapter.

 Triskel opened his eyes to dim darkness and for a moment, he thought that he was still in the forest, waking to the gloom of early morning. But the surface beneath his head was stone and he was surrounded in silence. There was no rustle of activity as the rest of the Company stirred toward wakefulness, no murmur of conversation or complaint at the sad state of their food stores. He was alone, and his mind struggled to remember as he eased himself to a sitting position and settled his back against the stone wall. The capture by Woodland Elves, Viska's secret revealed, Thorin's anger...the memories gradually seeped back into his mind, but none of them brought him up to waking on the floor of a prison cell. Then his probing fingers found the large lump behind his ear and he realized what had happened. He had a vague recollection of the one of the guards shoving Viska away from the rest of the group, forcing her to follow the fire-haired Elf maiden down a winding corridor. He had fought, struggling to reach his sister, until a blinding pain erupted in his head and the world went black. The pointy-eared bastards had knocked him out! He was locked away in the depths of the Elf king's dungeons, far from his kin and companions.

The young silversmith prowled the confines of his cell, a dozen different emotions swirling through him. Fear for his sister, frustration at his imprisonment, concern for his companions, anger at the Elves who had revealed Viska's secret so carelessly, apprehension about Thorin's reaction. The Dwarf king had kept his fury contained in front of their captors, but Trisk did not doubt that he had more to say.

A light step alerted him that he was not alone, and he spun on his heel, instinctively reaching for a knife he no longer had. The red-haired Elf maid from the forest stood in front of his cell, cool green eyes regarding him steadily.

“Did you want something? Or did you just come to stare?” he grumbled. “What have you done with my sister? With my companions?”

“The Dwarf maid is safe. You are in the dungeons of the Woodland Realm, and my prince bade me keep you scattered, but I would not have you troubled about the well-being of your folk. All fifteen of you are safe and being treated well.”

“For prisoners,” he spat.

“For prisoners,” she agreed calmly.

He stared at her in silence for a long moment, wondering why she had brought him news, why she was speaking to him at all. “If you are here for information, you might as well go,” he finally stated. “I have nothing to tell you.”

“I merely thought to ease your mind,” she replied softly. “I will tell the maid you are well. I will leave you to rest.”

He nodded brusquely and watched her walk away before allowing a small smile to spread across his scarred face. Fifteen. She had said that all fifteen of the companions were locked away. But she had not mentioned Bilbo.

 

* * *

 

Dwalin was angry. Angry with the Elves, for interfering in the quest and for taking the Dwarves prisoner over something so petty as trespassing, rather than simply escorting them through that Mahal-cursed wood and simply telling them not to come back. Angry with Thorin, for ordering him to stand down instead of fighting their captors, no matter that he stood no chance. Angry with himself, for allowing his king and kin to be captured in the first place (though how he could have stopped it, he wasn't certain). And tucked in the back of his mind, a less-pressing matter at the moment, was the ball of emotion that was his anger, shock, and grudging respect for the children of Kulvik. He wasn't certain where the respect had come from, but he could not deny that it was there, so he simply pushed it aside until he could examine it further. If the Company never escaped the cells of Mirkwood, how he felt about the lad and lass would not matter...and nor would anything else. So, rather than dwelling on emotions that he might or might not have to act on later, he concentrated on trying to think of a way to get out.

 

* * *

 

Rivendell had been an endless delight for Bilbo, full of art, sculptures, books, history, and endlessly patient Elves willing to answer his every question. Mirkwood was an entirely different experience. Of course, he and the Company had been Lord Elrond's honored guests in Rivendell, while here, the Dwarves were imprisoned and the Hobbit an invisible presence haunting the halls. By the second afternoon of his stay, he was feeling frustrated and confined, trapped in the endless halls of the Woodland Realm. He did not dare to try to sneak outside, terrified of not being able to get back in. He had managed to scrounge some food from the kitchens, but not enough to make a proper meal (and he was beginning to forget what one of those even looked like), and he still had not found all of the Dwarves. He was still missing the four youngest – Fíli, Kíli, Trisk, and Visk – but he did have one more section of the dungeons to search, so hopefully he would find them all there. He also hoped that one of them would have an explanation as to why Thorin was so angry with the lads from Emyn Uial. Bilbo had been so preoccupied with finding everyone that he had quite forgotten to ask any of the others about the king's irritation, and none had volunteered anything, being more concerned with finding out if he had found their own kin and asking how they fared.

So far, they were all in slightly better shape physically than when they had been captured, finding little opportunity to do anything but eat and rest in the confines of their cells. They were all angry with the Elves, of course, and gloomy at the prospect of an overlong confinement, not to mention the deadline looming over their heads for the finding of the secret door. Bombur sat in glum silence and ate little, while Bofur's rich voice raised in sorrowful song had made him easy to find. Bifur's spirits had seemed higher than most, although he could not communicate with the Hobbit very well. The fierce toymaker seemed confident in Bilbo's ability to find them a way out. Dori, Nori, and Ori all fretted about one another, which surprised the burglar, since he was used to the three brothers irritating and harassing one another on the journey. Dwalin was angry, which was to be expected by any who knew him, and Balin was calm and patient, again as expected. The only flare of temper that the Halfling had seen from the elder Dwarf was when he had described the conversation between Thorin and the Elf king. Balin had sighed and shaken his head, muttering about Durin pride. Bilbo had not tried talking to Óin, preferring not to alert any of the sharp-eared guards, simply making himself known to the healer with an encouraging smile. Glóin was still steaming over the theft of his locket, but had at least spared the burglar a smile and a few words of support before he had to hurry away.

Sighing, Bilbo watched yet another Elven guard stride purposefully down the hallway before he could dart quietly into the last section of the dungeons that he had located, but not yet searched. Turning right at the first branching, he followed the sound of low humming until he could see a light-haired figure sitting in the back of a cell. Slipping the ring from his finger, he stepped to the door.

 

* * *

 

Thorin was surrounded by liars. Not traitors – he could not believe that, no matter what he said as his fury burned and he vented his anger in rants that were a mixture of Common and Khuzdul. No, not traitors, but liars. Trisk, of course, and his oh-so-clever sister. He was not certain what part of the deception angered him the most – the initial lie, the fact that he had so quickly come to trust the two youngsters, or the fact that joining the quest had put the young Dwarrowmaid needlessly into danger. He knew that Durin's daughters were just as strong and capable as their male counterparts (his own sister was proof of that), but since Erebor and Khazâd-dûm, their people were too few to risk the safety of their precious mothers and wives. Dwarrowdams were protected, treasured, not because they could not take care of themselves, but because they were the only ones who could give life, the only hope for the future of their people. Simply thinking of the number of dangers the expedition had encountered, the number of times the precious lass in their midst (and not just any lass, but the daughter of his old comrade, deserving of every protection) might have been killed, make him feel ill.

And then there were the other conspirators. The king-in-exile had not missed the reactions of other members of the Company to the Elf prince's revelation. Or rather, their lack of reactions. His own nephews, last of his bloodline, his heirs, had conspired to help keep her secret. After all of his lessons on their responsibility to their people, how could they have been so foolish?

 

* * *

 

Glóin was, quite frankly, offended by the whole matter. The golden-haired Elf's insults to his family still rankled – even for a Dwarf, the merchant was remarkably devoted to his family. Only his wife Fla's strong support for the quest had eased his mind at the thought of leaving her and young Gimli behind to venture off into danger. But while the personal offense was sharp, the red-haired fighter was more irritated about the delay in the expedition. How could they have been trespassing when there was nothing to warn off intruders on the borders of the Elf king's lands? And if the lands were claimed by the king, wasn't it his responsibility to deal with such dangers as the great spiders? No Dwarf clan would have let such a threat grow so close to the borders of their territory, and they certainly would not have been so inhospitable to innocent travels who fell afoul of such terrible beasts. Not that Dwarves went out of their way to welcome outsiders to their communities, but they did not treat them so shabbily. But then, when had the Woodland Elves shown common courtesy to any but their own? He had been young when Erebor fell, but he remembered the long years of the Exile after Thranduil had refused them aid. The pointy-eared bastards seemed to thrive on causing problems for Durin's folk, and Glóin knew he would never trust any Elf one whit more than he would an Orc.

 

* * *

 

Triskel wasn't the only one of the Company whose thoughts had turned toward Bilbo.

Viska hated not having anything to do. She had explored her cell thoroughly, inventoried the contents of her coat pockets, and combed out her heavy chestnut curls. Her hair was still dreadfully short for any self-respecting Dwarrowmaid, but shoulder-length wasn't bad considering how much of it had been burned, cut, and yanked out only a few months before. It could stand to be washed, of course, and she would have given a lot for a simple bucket of warm water and bar of rough soap, but she did the best that she could. At least the greasy locks were tied back out of her face. She had pulled her hood back up and sat on her bench, her back tucked into the corner and her legs pulled up toward her chest as she fretted over the whereabouts and safety of the Halfling. So far as she knew, there had been no sign of him after he had freed the Company from the spider webs – just that yelp of alarm in the trees before the great spiders had descended once more. She hated to think of the little burglar lost alone in the forest, possibly hurt. He had shown great resilience so far on the journey, but the entire expedition had nearly come to a gruesome end in Mirkwood and she shuddered at the thought of him taking his chances on his own. But while her head worried, her heart waited with a sense of anticipation. Bilbo had proven more than resilient – the little Hobbit was also good at thinking on his feet, and seemed to be possessed of an extraordinary amount of luck. Something told her that he would be the key to any possibility of the Dwarves escaping their cells.

Thought of the Company, however, sent her spirits plummeting once more. She and Trisk were no longer part of the group – Thorin had made that abundantly clear. The anger burning in his eyes and smoldering in his voice had matched every tale her father had ever told of the legendary tempers of the royal family, and she felt a creeping guilt at having been the one to have raised it. Even if they could escape, nothing would be the same. The siblings would have to return to Emyn Uial, the only place where they were known and might have a chance of putting their lives back together. More guilt stabbed at her heart. She should have stayed home, or in Ered Luin when Lady Dís had offered her a place. She should not have been so stubborn, so determined to stay at her brother's side. All that she had accomplished was to anger the Dwarf who would be King Under the Mountain, and destroy Trisk's chances of earning an honored place in the renewed kingdom.

_Not to mention falling half in love with his nephew...with his heir_ , a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind. Her breath hitched and she closed her eyes tightly against the tears that threatened. That brief joy was over. Her lie was exposed, and Thorin would send them on their way, never to be welcome in the halls of Erebor. The king would find a more suitable match for his heir, and she would never see Fíli again. At that thought, her heart clenched and she choked, suddenly realizing that maybe she wasn't half in love with the prince, after all.

 

* * *

 

Bifur felt a little guilty for some of the things he had said to the Elf captain, even though she could not actually understand what he was signing. He was fairly certain that the general meaning had gotten through. It wasn’t fair, and he knew it. She was following the orders of her king, and the scruffy toymaker could read the compassion in her eyes as she made her rounds. There was something in the situation that she did not like, and so she had taken it upon herself to check on the prisoners several times a day. Midway through the second day (as judged by the timing of the meals since they had arrived), he stopped signing at her as she passed, mustering what he hoped was a gentle smile instead. It certainly caught her attention, green eyes widening as she halted in front of his cell. Trying to convey a sense of concern and curiosity, he traced out the shape of Bofur’s hat in the air, then puffed out his cheeks and traced out a much larger stomach in imitation of Bombur. A tiny smile flickered across her face and she nodded.

“They are both well, though gloomy in their confinement. The Dwarf with the hat sings. The other eats little, but we keep an eye on him. He will not starve.”

Bifur nodded. It was rare that Bombur was depressed enough not to eat, but it would not hurt his heavy cousin to go a few more days on light rations. And Bofur always sang, though if his mood was low, his songs would be sorrowful ballads rather than cheeky tavern tunes. The toymaker thought for a moment, wondering how to ask about the young lass without being crude. Finally, he pointed at the she-Elf, then held out a hand at Dwarf-height, putting his arm across his face to represent the scarf Visk had worn. The red-haired Captain looked confused for a moment, tipping her head to the side.

“The Dwarf maiden?” she hazarded. He nodded quickly and she sighed. “She is well, but she has withdrawn into herself. Is it true that most of you did not know she was female?”

The toymaker laughed and nodded, mimicking the scarf again and pointing to his own bulky layers of clothing. The Elf nodded thoughtfully, then glanced down the hall.

“I must continue my rounds,” she told him quietly. “I do not know how long my king will keep you and your companions here, but I will do my best to see you are treated well. Especially since you are no longer signing at me so rudely.”

She offered him a tiny smile as he chuckled ruefully, signing an apology that she could not understand. Still, she nodded as though it had been accepted, then strode off down the passageway.

 

* * *

 

“Bilbo! Have you seen Kíli? Viska? Thorin?”

The Hobbit paused and blinked before answering, surprised by the order of the names. No one would ever expect Fíli not to ask about his brother first, but Thorin would usually be second. And who was 'Viska?' The golden-haired prince read the confusion on his face and shook his head.  
  
“That's right – you weren't there. Viskel is a lass. Her real name is Viska. Have you found her?”

Bilbo closed his mouth with a snap. “Ah, no, actually. Nor Kíli or Trisk. You four are the last. Visk is a lass, you say? What about Trisk?”

Fíli huffed a tiny laugh. “Triskel is her brother.”

“Is that why Thorin wants them left behind?”

The Hobbit flinched back as Fíli lunged for the cell door, blue eyes blazing. “What?!”

“Th-Thorin. When I told him I was going to find the rest of the Company and work on a way to get everyone out, he said Triskel and Visk could stay and rot,” Bilbo stammered.

“ _A_ _hr_ _â_ _kul l_ _alkhûn_!” Fíli snarled. “Bilbo, find them, and Kíli, and once you have a plan, come back to me. We are _not_ leaving them behind.”

Bilbo nodded, suddenly realizing just how much the young prince resembled his uncle. Stepping out of Fíli's line of sight, he slipped the ring on again and padded off in search of the last three Dwarves, and inspiration on how to get his friends out of the Elven dungeon.

 

* * *

 

In spite of his angry words to the Elf-maid, Kíli blamed himself for Thorin learning Viska’s secret. He was the one who had spoken it aloud, calling her ‘sister.’ It had seemed right at the time, but so had many of his more foolish decisions in life. He rubbed his thumb morosely over the runestone. The symbols had been newly carved and sharp edged when his mother had pressed it into his hand all those months ago. Now the edges were worn smooth by restless fingers, a touchstone for the darkest watches of the night, when the quest seemed to be the only reality. _I_ _nnikh d_ _ê_... _return to me_. A command, and a promise. Fíli had never told him what argument Thorin had finally used to convince their mother to let him join the expedition, but Kíli could make a shrewd guess. Only one thing could have persuaded Dís to let her younger son leave, and it was his own secret terror – that something might happen to Fíli while they were so far apart.

_“_ _My blood_ _spilled_ _before his, my life laid down for his.”_

Kíli had made that promise more than 20 years before, on the day he had realized the burden that his brother carried as Thorin’s heir. No one had heard it, and his family would have protested if they had, but it was carved into his heart. He knew it would be a difficult one to keep – Fíli's protective streak made it hard to make sure that he was the one being protected. There was also the fact that the younger prince knew that his death would gut his brother, just as it would destroy him if the reverse occurred. But now, Fíli had Viska, and for the first time, Kíli believed that his brother might survive without him, damaged but unbroken, and so now he added to his vow.

_“My life before hers, to protect my brother’s One_ _to my last breath and beyond_ _.”_

 

* * *

 

Ori was lonely, and that surprised him. Given the situation, he would have expected his prevalent emotion to have been fear, but perhaps he just didn’t find the Elves quite so threatening after spending the last several weeks fleeing from Orcs, Wargs, and Goblins. Or maybe he was just too tired to be afraid. Most of the Company had found it hard to sleep in Mirkwood, and he was no exception. He slept, and then he ate (waking just in time to save his breakfast from being removed in favor of his lunch, so he managed a double meal), and then he opened the one piece of his gear that had been left to him. The red-haired she-Elf had let him keep his journal and sketch book, though not without a thorough search of his waterproof satchel, so he had something to do to pass the time. Still, he would have preferred to have company if he had to be locked up. Even Dori’s constant fussing would have been preferable to endless hours alone.

 

* * *

 

Viska was halfway through her meal when a small figure approached outside her cell and cleared its throat. The lass glanced up into the nervous eyes of the Company's burglar and felt a smile creep across her face.

“Master Baggins!” she greeted quietly, standing and going to the door. “It is good to see you free!”

The Hobbit returned her smile, looking a little stunned, and she suddenly realized that he was seeing her for the first time as a lass. Her face fell, wondering if she had lost his friendship as well.

“Ah...yes. You missed our capture in the forest.” She stared at her boots uncomfortably. “I am sorry for the deception, but it was necessary. I understand if you no longer wish to speak to me.”

“What? Oh, no! No, my friend, I am not angry,” he assured her. “Fíli warned me about your...um...secret.” Color crept up his face and he fidgeted nervously. “It's just that...I was wondering how the Elf knew,” he admitted finally. “I never suspected, and even now, able to see your face...Dwarf maids have beards?” he finished in bewilderment. She chuckled.

“More like extended sideburns, not full beards,” she replied. “Normally, they would be braided or beaded, but mine are just growing back after the...burns. Do not feel bad, Master Hobbit. Most non-Dwarves have difficulty recognizing Dwarrowdams. The Elf heard Kíli call me 'sister,' else she would not have guessed.”

“Sister?” Bilbo blinked.

“A term of affection,” she laughed. “Trisk is my brother by blood, but Kíli seems to have adopted me.”

The Hobbit cocked his head curiously. “And Fíli?”

Viska shrugged, fighting the blush she could feel crawling up her face. “I believe Fíli sees me...a bit differently,” she answered, then hurriedly changed the subject. “How are the others?”  
He sighed. “Well. Angry and worried, but well. You are all scattered throughout the dungeons. It has taken me two days to find all of you. You are the last. And I must say, it's nice to actually be able to _speak_ with you,” he added with a smile.

A low gurgling sound caught her ear, and she raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that your stomach grumbling, Master Baggins?”

“I do wish you would call me Bilbo, Mast – Mistress Viska.”

“Only if you call me Viska,” she retorted. “Now, was that your stomach grumbling, Bilbo?”

“Well, yes. The Elves feed prisoners, but hidden burglars must fend for themselves.”

She picked up her plate and shoved it out under the edge of the bars of the door. “Here. I am quite full. Take the rest of mine. I doubt you can plan our escape on an empty stomach.”

 

* * *

 

“Barrels.”

Fíli blinked, staring at the Halfling in confusion. Two more days had passed in the depths of Mirkwood, and he wondered if the confinement was starting to affect his hearing. Or his mind.

“Barrels?”

A small smile flickered across Bilbo's smudged face and he nodded. “The Elves get many of their supplies from Laketown, shipped up the Forest River in barrels. I found a pile of empties in the cellars, soon to be dropped in the river to float back down to the lake. They'll fit a Dwarf each.”

“Barrels?” Fíli was still trying to process the idea. “You want us to float down the river in barrels?”

“The kitchens are in an uproar – there's to be a great festival tonight, so they have been using supplies at an alarming rate. There should be plenty enough for everyone.”

Fíli nodded as Bilbo explained the rest of his plan, trusting the little burglar's instincts. Their quest would have ended several times without the intervention of the Hobbit (or the wizard, but Gandalf was far away), and the blond swordsman was a firm believer in Bilbo's luck. He nodded in agreement.

“Tell Thorin and make your plans, Master Burglar. I would wait until you have everyone out before you tell them how we are escaping, however. It will be harder for them to argue with you when they are halfway to the cellars. And Bilbo...thank you, my friend.”

The Hobbit smiled and nodded, then hurried away. Fíli waited until he had vanished again (and how did he do that so easily?) before letting out a relieved sigh and sliding down to sit in a slump against the wall of his cell. Bilbo had found a way out. The burglar had offered his idea with some hesitation, obviously not certain that the Dwarf prince would agree to it, but this was their fourth day in the dungeons of the Woodland Realm, and time was slipping away from them, so the swordsman was not inclined to argue. Every day brought them closer to missing the deadline for finding the secret door, and every night brought an uneasy slumber as he slept alone – no Kíli to lean against in brotherly comfort, no Viska tucked against his shoulder where he could protect her from the world.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo hurried silently through the halls, refining the plan in his mind as he went. He had presented it to Thorin (minus the little details that the king did not need to hear), and now he was headed to the cellars to pinch the keys to the cells. The last time he had seen the Keeper of the Keys, the Elf had been indulging in a rather excessive amount of fine wine, well on his way to inebriation, so it should be a relatively easy task.

_From respectable Hobbit of the Shire to planning a jailbreak in the space of a few months_ , he thought with a small smile. _Why, Bilbo Baggins, I do believe that these Dwarves are a bad influence on you!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> Ahrâkul lalkhûn – arrogant fool


	18. Conspirators Confronted

Kíli grinned when the Halfling unlocked his cell, stepping out with a shiver of relief. “Bilbo, you brilliant Hobbit!” he cheered quietly.

“Kíli!”

Turning, he found his brother waiting a few steps away and lunged to hug him, pounding his back joyfully. Then he realized that the three of them were alone.

“Where are the others?” he demanded, panic surging through him. “We cannot leave without them!”

Fíli's eyes hardened to chips of blue ice and his face became grim. “We aren't, but Bilbo is getting the four of us down to this exit he has found first. Then he'll go back for the others.”  
  
“Four of us?”

Bilbo gave him an apologetic look. “I wanted to get you two, Triskel, and Viska safely stowed before I let Thorin out. He ordered me to leave them behind, you see.”

“Leave them behind?” Kíli stared at the little burglar in shock as Fíli nodded.

“Ah, here we are!” Bilbo brightened as he approached another cell. Triskel was waiting anxiously at the door to this one, and he glared at the brothers as the Hobbit let him out.

“Bilbo warned you?”

Kíli nodded tightly as his brother growled. Trisk did not move for a long moment, however, studying each of them.

“You realize that you are defying your uncle, your king. Are you certain that you want to do this?”

Kíli snorted and grabbed the other Dwarf by the shoulder, pulling him out of the cell. “Let's see, you jumped on a Warg to save my brother, your sister nearly fell off a mountain saving me, you tried to take on Azog to protect my hard-headed uncle...oh, and I think your sister might be my brother's One. So yes, we're certain.”

“Kíli!”

He ignored his brother's outraged whisper and glanced at Bilbo. “I believe we have one more Dwarf to rescue before you go release the rest of the Company, yes? Lead on, Master Burglar!”

 

* * *

 

Viska was huddled on the bench in her cell, knees drawn up to her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs. She had rearranged her scarf to hide her hair, but had left her face uncovered. She looked oddly vulnerable as she raised her head upon hearing the key in the lock. Her eyes widened in shock as she jumped to her feet and started for the door.

“Bilbo! I knew you'd think of something!” Then her gaze flickered over his companions and she frowned. “I thought you were getting me and Trisk out, then going back for the Company. Why are the princes here?”

Bilbo cleared his throat nervously and Kíli took pity on the Hobbit.

“We're here because we aren't leaving you two, _or_ letting you slip out and go your own way. You're coming with the Company.”

She backed away, shaking her head. “Thorin doesn't want us, he made that very clear. He won't let us go with you.”

Fíli sighed and stepped into the cell, pulling the lass to him for a warm embrace, pressing his forehead to hers. “Thorin won't know you're there until it's too late,” he promised. “I'll change his mind, somehow. He is stubborn, but he is not cruel. But first, we have to get out of here. Bilbo still has to get us packed up so he can go back for the others. So come on, lass. Time is wasting.”

 

* * *

 

“So, when you said Bilbo was going to 'pack us up,' you meant quite literally,” Kíli muttered to his brother a few minutes later. The little group stood in the cellar, eying a pile of empty barrels that were stacked on their sides, set to be dumped out of a trapdoor into the river. Bilbo had left them with a brief explanation of what was needed, then hurried off to liberate the rest of the dwarves.

Fíli grinned and nodded. “All right, Viska, let's get you secured. Kíli, help Trisk.”

“Of course, brother. I wouldn't dream of assisting the pretty lass when I can help her big lug of a brother instead.” Kíli shot a cheeky grin at his brother and chuckled when Viska blushed. Fíli rolled his eyes and swatted at him, but the raven-haired Dwarf dodged easily and turned to help Triskel into one of the bottom barrels. He packed straw in around the grumbling Dwarf, then replaced the lid, securing it as best he could. Fíli finished getting Viska settled, then leaned in to plant a soft kiss on the top of her head before closing her barrel.

“Hold tight, _kurdê_ ,” he murmured. “You'll be going into the river again, but at least this time it's intentional.”

“Right, then. Shall we, brother?” Kíli eyed the barrels dubiously. The burglar's idea had merit, but he was not sure about riding down the river in one of the things.

“Go ahead and get in, Kíli. I'll pack you up, then get one of the others to help me,” Fíli replied. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I'd rather be on my feet if it comes to arguing with Thorin,” he confided. “Hopefully, we can get him packed up before he notices them.”

Kíli nodded and clambered into one of the top barrels, patting straw into place beneath him, then pulling more in around him as Fíli passed him great handfuls. He was just settling in when footsteps and muttering on the stairs alerted them to the arrival of the rest of the Company.

“Ah, there's Fíli!” Bofur exclaimed genially. “Bilbo explained that you and Kíli were closest to the cellars, so he sent you down first to get everything started,” the miner commented with a broad wink. Then he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “So, which one's mine, lad?”

It took a great deal of grumbling, and more than a few irritated orders from Thorin, before the entire Company was snugged into barrels. Bombur was already complaining, until Bifur kicked his barrel, but finally they were all packed in, except for Bilbo, who was busily replacing lids. Kíli peeked out of his barrel abruptly.

“What about you?”

“Ah, no worry,” the Hobbit assured him airily. “I'll be along and climb into one of the empties.”

 

* * *

 

Fíli had never been so uncomfortable in his life. He had never been at ease in boats, and being sealed in a barrel with no fresh air was worse than any boating excursion on lake or river. He was fairly certain that they had gone over two small waterfalls, as the sickening sense of weightlessness was hard to mistake. The barrel was cramped and leaking water, his stomach was gnawing on his backbone (when it wasn't trying to empty its nonexistent contents), and his nose was filled with the smell of apples. He had chosen the barrel because the crisp scent reminded him of Beorn's orchard and the conversation with Viska, her gentle lips on his, the mischief in her eyes. As the interminable voyage progressed, however, the smell of food was contributing to the roiling nausea in his gut. He could only be thankful that the closed barrels would save him from Kíli seeing his discomfort.

And that was the other disturbing part of this journey. Another barrel would occasionally bump against his, but he could not call out to his companions, or even be certain that they were still accompanying him down the river. What if they had been recaptured? Perhaps they were even now being led back into Mirkwood in chains to face the ire of the Elven King. Surely even Bilbo would have been caught this time, for where would he hide? Or the Orcs? What if Azog's forces had finally tracked the Company and hauled the Dwarves from the river? Dark scenarios chased each other through his overly-vivid imagination until exhaustion pulled him down into a restless sleep haunted by terror-filled green eyes and his brother's voice crying out in pain.

Deliberate knocking on the side of the barrel roused the young Dwarf from a brain-clouded half-doze and he rapped back eagerly. A moment later, he realized how dangerous his response might have been, but then the lid was being pried off and he inhaled a chestful of fresh air before standing and retching painfully over the side. A bracing hand fell on his shoulder.  
“Bad as a boat?”

That Kíli's voice held sympathy rather than amusement told Fíli that he must present a truly pathetic sight. He groaned and wiped his mouth on his sleeve before raising his head. “Worse. I don't think I'll ever eat another apple. My barrel was full of the smell, and I'm starving, but sick. I'll never be able to _smell_ another apple.”

Kíli grimaced, then offered a hand to assist him in clambering out of the barrel. “Bilbo's been knocking on barrels, but he's only gotten five responses besides us. Thorin's half drowned, Bifur and Bofur aren't much better. Balin is not well, and Dwalin is with him. Think you could help me find the others?”

Fíli took a deep breath and held it for a long moment before nodding. “I think I've convinced my stomach we're on dry land. So long as I don't have to sprint any time soon, I should be alright.”

“Thorin thinks we've lost the Orcs, between Mirkwood and the river,” his brother commented, working lose the lid on the nearest barrel. He peered in and his dark eyes lit up. “Ah, Trisk, awake and breathing! Need any help getting out?”

The silversmith shook his head and hoisted himself out of the barrel, glancing around anxiously. “Viska?”

“Here,” Fíli replied, having just opened another barrel to reveal a familiar dark gray hood. Viska was in decent shape as well, and with the siblings' help, Bilbo, Fíli, and Kíli were able to locate and free the rest of the Company in good time. They were in various states of distress, but only Bombur was unconscious, and Óin soon declared that he would be fine after some rest. Thorin had been deep in conversation with Balin, looking over the battered map, and they seemed to have reached a decision. Triskel and Viska visibly braced themselves when his deep eyes landed on them and anger flashed across the stern features.

“Master Burglar, I thought I said that those two were to be left behind.”

Fíli stepped in front of Bilbo, face carefully expressionless. “I took the keys and let them out. I thought Bilbo was mistaken. Thorin Oakenshield would never leave his companions in the hands of Elves.”

Thorin's expression darkened further, and Fíli felt his brother step to his side, braced and defiant, the scowl on his face nearly a match for his uncle's. Thorin's eyes flicked between his younger heir and Viska's stony expression, and he sighed, shaking his head. Before he could speak, however, Balin was at his side, a calming hand on the king's arm.

“What's done is done. The lads meant no harm. We should send a delegation to Laketown to get some aid for our companions.”

Thorin stood in silence for a long moment, then nodded and turned on his heel. “Fíli, Kíli, with me. You too, Master Baggins, and Balin. Dwalin, keep an eye out. We will see about getting help from the Men of the Lake.”

 

* * *

 

Viska stood in the chill air of the autumn evening and watched Fíli hurry away after his uncle. The fair-haired prince glanced back once and gave her a tiny encouraging smile. She returned it faintly, leaning in to her brother's side as Trisk wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her tightly. She closed her eyes for a bare moment, allowing herself to draw comfort from his presence. Then she straightened, shaking off her fatigue as she looked around at her companions. She glanced at Dwalin. The big warrior was leaning against a large boulder, massive arms crossed over his chest as he watched the siblings.

“Do you hate us as well?” she asked quietly. He studied her for a long moment, then sighed.

“No, lass. You're still part of this Company, and Thorin doesn't hate you. He is just...concerned, angry, worried. Too much going on in that head of his, as ever. Just...why, lass? Why the deception?”  
  
She met his gaze steadily. “Would Thorin have let me come along without it? Would you?”  
  
“Of course not.”

“Well, then. That is why.”

She offered him a small smile, then turned to survey the Company. Glóin hovered by his brother, shooting her distrustful glances, while Óin kept an eye on a stirring Bombur. Bofur sat next to his brother, chin in his hands, but he did catch her eye with a small smile and a twinkle in his dark eyes. Bifur was staring out at the river, oblivious to his surroundings. Dori studiously ignored her, but Ori smiled bashfully up from where he sat near Nori, dumping water out of his sodden boots. She moved over to sit next to him, Trisk at her side.

“At least you don't seem angry,” she commented lightly.

Ori blushed. “I already knew,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper as he glanced sideways at his eldest brother. Viska stared at him in shock.

“Since when?” Trisk demanded. The little scribe coughed.

“Beorn's. The apple orchard.”

Viska felt a blush creep her face and ducked away when her brother turned to look at her quizzically.

“What happened in the apple orchard?”  
  
“Fíli and I were talking. I had my hood down,” she replied evasively. “I thought Ori had gone back to the house.”

“I had,” he assured her earnestly. “I wasn't trying to spy. But I came back to let you know that Bombur didn't need any more apples, and I saw you...talking.”

Now Trisk looked really suspicious. “Just talking?”  
  
Viska sighed in exasperation. “Just talking, _nadad_. Kíli was there, too. He can vouch, if Thorin ever lets him speak to us again.” She smiled gently at Ori and his blush spread to the tips of his ears. “Thank you for your discretion, Ori. Thank you for keeping my secret.”

The scribe cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, in all honesty, I did tell someone. Nori knew, too.”

Trisk groaned and shook his head. “I'm beginning to doubt that we fooled anyone but Thorin and Dwalin, _namadith_.”

Viska would have laughed, but the memory of Glóin's glare and Dori's turned back stifled her amusement. Ori seemed to understand, because he shot a look at his eldest brother.

“He will come around. Dori is bossy, but he cares about everyone. Even Nori, though he won't admit it.”

 

* * *

 

Bilbo and Balin soon fell behind, allowing a gap to grow between them and where Thorin walked with his heirs. This was partly due to Balin's exhaustion, and partly to Thorin's design. He wanted a few moments of relative privacy with his sister-sons to discuss their...rebellion.

“You knew about their deception,” he stated abruptly, catching Kíli's stumble as the younger prince shot him a wide-eyed look. Fíli, however, simply nodded.

“I knew Viska was a lass, yes,” he admitted calmly. Thorin growled and clenched his jaw.

“How long?”

“I would imagine all of her life,” his elder nephew retorted. Now Kíli stopped, staring at his brother, and Thorin himself was slightly stunned by the cheek of the reply. Then his anger reasserted itself.

“How long have you _known_?” he snarled, turning on his heel and planting himself in Fíli's way.

“Since Rivendell. I started to suspect after the river incident,” Fíli finally replied.

“And you never thought to tell me?”

“No, Uncle, because I knew how you would overreact.”

“Overreact? How is it an overreaction to strive to protect a Dwarrowmaid? It is our _responsibility_!”

“It is, but this particular Dwarrowmaid can take care of herself.”

“So can your mother, but Dís did not tag along!” Thorin roared.

“Only because you convinced her not to.” That muttered reply came from Kíli, who had clearly not meant for it to be heard.

“ _Amad_ knew,” Fíli interjected before Thorin could turn on his younger nephew. The older Dwarf stopped, mid-snarl, staring at his heir.

“What?”

“Trisk told you they traveled to Ered Luin first, and _Amad_ told them where to meet us. She was friends with their mother. They told her the truth – all of it – and asked for her advice. Ma offered to let Viska stay with her until we returned, but she also told her that she would go, if she had the chance. Ma even taught her a few of her sparring tricks before they left. That is what gave her away in Rivendell, to me, anyway. _Amad_ thought she deserved to go.”

“It is not Dís's decision or responsibility,” Thorin countered with a growl. “This quest is no place for a lass.”

Kíli flushed and his fists clenched. “You mean the lass who has held her own since we left the Shire?” he demanded angrily. “The lass who helped save Fíli from a Warg? Who kept me from falling off of the mountain? Who killed one of the Mirkwood spiders with a dagger the length of her _hand_ , hilt and all? _That_ lass?”

Thorin studied his younger nephew. Kíli had always been the more passionate of the brothers – quick to form attachments and loathe to let them go. The exiled king suddenly realized what must be behind the youth's hostility.

“Mahal, Kíli, tell me you don't think you're in love with the lass,” he sighed.

“What?” To Thorin's relief, Kíli looked genuinely stunned by the idea. “No, Uncle! She is a dear friend, like a sister.”

“Then why this passionate defense? Why hide her secret for so long?”

“Because she _is_ a dear friend, Uncle,” Fíli replied. There was a pleading look in his eyes now that tore at Thorin's heart. Never had the golden-haired lad looked so much like his dark-haired mother. Dís's gentle blue eyes had been able to tug at her brother's heart since childhood, but it was usually her younger son who used his puppy-dog gaze. “Have they not shown the qualities you claimed to seek? 'Loyalty. Honor. A willing heart,'” the elder quoted to him, face set.

Thorin shook his head, unable to shake the sense of betrayal that had settled into his heart the first moment he had seen Viska clearly. To have had the truth delivered by an Elf (and the smirking son of Mirkwood's arrogant king, no less), made it even worse. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was being unfair, could almost hear Balin's mild reasoning tone, Dís's incredulous argument. But his pride raged against the deception and made his blue eyes icy and his voice unyielding.

“They will travel with us to Laketown. No further.”

With a last glower, he strode off once more in the direction of the town, moving quickly enough to discourage conversation, but slowly enough not to leave Balin and the burglar completely behind. After a few steps, he realized that his nephews had fallen back with the others, jaws set and eyes shadowed.

 

* * *

 

_Unnoticed in the hidden depths of the Dwarf's mind, a shimmering tendril of enchantment begins to uncoil. After being buried and dormant for more than a century, it moves slowly, but its power has_ _not waned_ _. If anything, it is stronger, and ever_ _y_ _step brings it closer to its source._

 

* * *

 

Balin raised an eyebrow as the two lads fell back to keep pace with him and the Hobbit. The older Dwarf had heard most of the argument and could guess at the rest, but he did not say anything, waiting instead to see which of the princes would speak. Fíli walked in silence, eyes staring into the distance, barely aware of his surroundings. Kíli was a bit more animated, dark eyes darting to his brother's face, to Thorin's back, to the ground, to Laketown in the distance. Bilbo glanced back and forth between the lads, confusion on his face. After a few moments, Kíli caught the look and offered the Hobbit a small reassuring smile. Then he caught Balin's eye and nodded toward his brother.

“Thorin has it wrong, you know. She is his One, not mine,” he commented quietly. Balin stared at him in consternation, then looked at the elder prince. Fíli did not react, beyond tensing slightly as he strode silently along. The old adviser glanced back at the younger brother.

“What makes you say that?”

Kíli shrugged, eyes deep and thoughtful. “I feel it. I see it in their eyes. It has been growing since Rivendell. I see how they are constantly aware of one another.”

Balin shot another look at Fíli, but he was still ignoring the conversation determinedly. “Fíli?” he asked gently. The fair-haired prince stiffened, then sighed.

“I do not know,” he replied softly. “I feel...something. But how do you know? I am always aware of her – what she is doing, how she feels, what she needs. I want to protect her, but I also want to challenge her. I want to have her at my side always, but I also know that she can stand on her own....” he trailed off, looking frustrated at his inability to express himself. “I do not know,” he finished quietly. Kíli sighed.

“Well, I do,” he stated firmly. “And she is.”

Balin was saved from having to comment by the looming gate that barred the bridge to Laketown. Thorin had halted, looking impatient as the others caught up, then turned to hail the guardsmen inside the gatehouse. The tall Men came out with wide eyes and the old Dwarf was reminded that it had been long indeed for Men since Durin's folk dwelt in the Mountain. Fíli and Kíli moved up to flank their uncle, offering the Men nods of respect.

“How might I assist you, Master Dwarf?” the older of the Men asked genially, trying to mask his shock behind politeness.

“We need to speak to whoever is in charge of this town,” Thorin replied gravely.

“The Master is at dinner,” the guard replied dubiously, “but I can send a message to him, if it is urgent.”

“It is. I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, once King Under the Mountain. I would speak to the Master of Laketown to see if he would share in the wealth when Erebor is reclaimed.”

 

* * *

 

It was not long before the runner that the guards sent into town returned, accompanied by a skittering, unsavory-looking Man who bore more than a passing resemblance to a rodent. He introduced himself as Alfrid and invited the Dwarves to accompany him, all the while bowing and smiling ingratiatingly as he dry-washed his hands. Only the smallest glimmer of disgust flickered across Thorin's face, and the princes kept their reactions to a brief exchange of glances. Balin merely watched closely, and Bilbo hovered at the rear of the group, uncertain and uncomfortable.

“If you will follow me, Sire, I will lead your retinue to the Master,” Alfrid sniveled. Thorin nodded graciously and motioned for the Man to lead the way, following with back straight and head high, a challenge in his eyes. Fíli and Kíli moved with him, the elder prince falling into his usual confident swagger as his brother's keen gaze swept their surroundings. Balin and Bilbo fell in behind, the Hobbit feeling rather bemused at the idea of being part of a king's retinue. He supposed it sounded a bit better than “Company Burglar.”

“I rather feel that I missed an important part of that conversation earlier,” he murmured quietly to the councilor as the group started across the bridge. A hint of a smile crossed Balin's face.

“Now might not be the best time to explain,” he replied quietly, with a nod toward the back of Thorin's head. “Ask the lads later, if you get a chance. Kíli, preferably. I'm not sure Fíli will answer.”

 

* * *

 

The Master of Laketown was indeed at dinner – or at feast, more accurately. He sat in a great dining room in the largest building in the ramshackle town, presiding over a small crowd, looking greasy and pleased with himself. He stood when the Dwarves entered, the brothers flanking their uncle, Balin and the Hobbit a little behind them. The Master bowed extravagantly.

“Welcome, Thorin, son of Thráin, come to reclaim the Kingdom Under the Mountain!” he declaimed. “Please, will you and your folk join us? You look weary.”

Thorin nodded politely in acknowledgment. “First, we would ask that you send aid to the rest of our companions. They wait a little way up the river. Master Baggins can guide your Men.”

The Hobbit sighed disconsolately and nodded as the Master assigned a group of soldiers to accompany him back to the rest of the Dwarves. Kíli stirred and spoke before Fíli could restrain him.

“I can go. Bilbo is exhausted.”

“I'm sure Master Baggins will not object to leading help to our kin,” Thorin growled. “You and your brother will remain with me.” He waited until the rescue party had been gathered and dispatched, then turned once more to the Master. “I thank you for your hospitality. As you were told, I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, once King Under the Mountain. These are my heirs, sons of my father's daughter, Fíli and Kíli. And my kinsman and councilor, Balin, son of Fundin.”

 

* * *

 

Tauriel stood on the bank of the Forest River, a small smile teasing her lips as she stared at the scene before her. Here was the answer to the riddle of the Dwarven Company's escape from her king's halls, though she had not yet discovered how they had gotten out of their cells in the first place.

The suspicion had first begun to grow in her mind when, in the midst of leading a determined search of the halls for the missing prisoners, she had heard a comment from one of the butlers about the empty barrels destined for Laketown being dropped early the afternoon before. None of the king's household recalled having done it, although there had been enough of the king's preferred Dorwinion wine flowing at the feast that it was perfectly reasonable for memories to be fuzzy. The beginnings of an idea had blossomed in her mind, however, and it was not long before she slipped out on her own to follow the course of the river and see what sign she might find of the escaped Dwarves. Now she stood where the river met the Long Lake, where a number of the barrels from the king's cellars (fifteen, to be exact) had been pulled up on the bank, their lids removed and the ground disturbed by the movement of many booted feet.

A movement at the edge of the forest had her spinning in place, an arrow nocked, though she knew already that it was one of her own. No Orc could have crept so close without a sound. She met the fierce blue eyes of the prince as a tiny smile flickered across his usually solemn face and was gone. Legolas nodded, his gaze darting to the barrels strewn behind her as she returned her arrow to the quiver.

“What are you doing out here, Tauriel?”

She frowned slightly, then remembered that he had been out on patrol through the night. She indicated the barrels with a nod.

“The Dwarves have escaped,” she replied quietly. “I do not know how they got out of their cells, but it is clear that this is how they got out of the halls. And you? You are outside of the normal bounds that we patrol.”

Legolas nodded, grimacing as he glanced back at the forest he had just left. “Orcs crossed through the wood in the night. I was tracking them.”

Tauriel's eyes widened, and she looked more closely at the tracks on the river bank. Her heart sank as she recognized the signs of Orc boots mixed among the Dwarven tracks.

“And they were tracking the Dwarves,” she commented quietly, pointing to the tracks. The golden-haired prince studied them for a moment, then nodded. To her surprise, he turned back toward the forest, as though he intended to leave off following the foul creatures. “Legolas?”

He glanced at her quickly. “They have left our lands,” he replied dismissively. “They are no longer our concern.”

“That is your father talking.” The angry retort had left her mouth before she could think better of it, and she froze, wondering how he would react. He stiffened, his eyes widening slightly as he stared at her in surprise.

“Why do you care so much about these Dwarves?” he asked finally. Some of the tension left her body and she turned to let her gaze drift out across the lake, toward the distant Mountain that the Dwarves had once called home.

“Because they are everything that we are not,” she answered quietly, her mind roaming back over the last few days of watching over the prisoners. “They are fiery emotion and fierce protectiveness, innocent determination and passionate dedication. They-”

“They are _fools_ ,” Legolas interrupted incredulously. “They think to take the Lonely Mountain back from the dragon!”

She turned back to him, fire flashing in her green eyes. “Is it not their home?” she countered. “Would you not do the same if Smaug had taken the Greenwood? Would you not risk everything to reclaim it?”

The prince snorted dismissively and shook his head. “ _We_ would not have drawn his attention in the first place,” he retorted. “ _We_ did not exhume the Arkenstone. That was _Dwarven_ greed.”

Tauriel nodded, accepting his point. “True, but is it fair to hold the mistakes of the forbears against the descendants?” she asked. “These Dwarves are not those who ruled Erebor when the Mountain fell, but the children that our king refused to aid when they were homeless and starving. Few of them even appear to be that old, but are more likely those born after they went into Exile. We did not stand with them against the dragon, we did not aid them when they were forced to flee...I can stand aside no longer, no matter my king's command.”

She met the gaze of her prince, her friend, pleading in her eyes, willing him to understand the certainty that she felt in the depths of her soul. “We cannot limit our efforts to our own lands and pretend that nothing that happens in the outside world will affect us. We cannot shut ourselves away from the light, from the world, and expect to be left alone. Evil will not respect our borders! It will always seek a way in.” She sighed, the brief flare of fierce intent leaving her feeling drained and weary. She could not read the expression on Legolas's face. “If we do not stand with the rest of the world, it will fall and fade away, and there will be no one left to stand with us when the darkness is at our gates,” she concluded. “Please, _mellon_...I cannot ask you to help, but please do not hinder me. My heart cries out in warning against letting the filth cross our land unchecked.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> kurdê – my heart


	19. Undercurrents in Laketown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning – things are about to go a bit AU (well, a bit more than they are already), so don't be surprised if you start seeing things that don't match the book or the movies.

Triskel distrusted the Master of Laketown on sight. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or the strain of wondering when Thorin would finally have his say about the siblings' deception...or perhaps it was simply the Man himself. His ingratiating manner seemed a skim of civility over a depth of calculated self-interest and scheming greed. Whatever the reason, merely being the same room with the Man set the young silversmith's nerves on edge. He would never have been able to follow such a preening, amoral-seeming personage, no matter the lineage, and he wondered that the Men of the town seemed to have no reluctance to grovel before the one they called “Master.”

Gradually, the experience of a lifetime of training his observational skills under his father's dedicated tutelage won through the stress of the past weeks, and he was able to actually _look_ at those who sat at feast with the Master of Laketown. Understanding came quickly after that. The town through which the Company had been escorted had been rickety and dilapidated, saved from squalor only by the clear indications that repairs were made where possible. The people who had peered from windows appeared much the same – beaten down and aged by endless work for simple survival. The Master, on the other hand, glowed, if not with health (for he had a look of pallid illness), then with wealth, and the others in the chamber had much the same air. These, then, were those who had found favor with their leader, those who enjoyed his special indulgence rather than bearing the burden of his rule. The fact that it was so easy to see the difference between these Men and the disheartened folk who had watched from the shadows made the back of Trisk's neck prickle with unease. He did not like the idea of Thorin seeking aid from such a Man, nor did he relish the idea of the Company being at the Master's mercy, and he edged protectively closer to his sister as they awkwardly took seats at one of the low tables. Viska was sagging with weariness, the walk from the shore of the river having drained her last reserves of energy, and he devoted several minutes to making sure that she at least attempted to eat some of the food that was offered them. The others of the Company were in similar condition – even Bombur stared at his plate for a long moment, blinking, before he lifted the first morsel to his lips. As soon as Viska had taken her first few bites, however, Trisk turned his attention back to the hall, hazel eyes skimming the press of bodies. Across the table, Dwalin was doing the same, and the older warrior offered a nod of acknowledgment when their gazes met. At the high table, Thorin and Balin seemed to be in deep discussion with the Master, while the two princes watched the room warily. Fíli's brow furrowed when his eyes lit on Viska, and Trisk shook his head, flashing a series of subtle signs to let him know that she was only tired. The golden head nodded, the solemn blue gaze moving on to the rest of the Company before he turned to murmur something to Balin. The old councilor nodded quickly, then spoke to Thorin, who frowned slightly before turning to the obsequious Man. A few words were exchanged, then Fíli and Kíli were on their feet, hurrying through the crowd of tall bodies to join their companions.

“The Master of Laketown has offered us a house of our own to stay in,” the elder prince announced as they approached. “One of the guards is going to show us the way. Thorin and Balin will be a bit longer if you want to stay, Dwalin,” he added before the bald warrior could speak. Dwalin gave a small grin at the anticipation of his concern, then nodded and hurried up to join his brother and king at the high table. The rest of the Company got to their feet with varying levels of difficulty, anxious to finally rest with some sense of security. Fíli was at Viska's side as she rose, one unobtrusive hand ready to support her, and Trisk shook his head in amusement at the exasperated look that flashed across her face.

“No arguments, _namadith_ ,” he told her quietly, heading off any protests that she was fine. “You're as exhausted as the rest of us. Let the poor lad help you out if you need it. I think all of us might need it before we get where we're going.”

A sigh answered him and the Dwarrowmaid shook her head in resignation before leaning slightly into Fíli's shoulder. A young, kind-faced Man wearing the deep burgundy of the Master's guards approached them with a small smile, offering a bow to Fíli and Kíli.

“If you would follow me, I will show you to the house that the Master has offered,” he stated pleasantly. “Baths have been prepared, and I would imagine you are ready to rest. It is not far.”

Fíli nodded as Viska straightened, though Trisk noticed that the prince had taken her hand gently, and she did not pull away.

“Lead on, Master Guard,” Kíli replied cheerily, though his eyes looked as dull with weariness as any of the others'. “Otherwise, we might just sleep here for the night.”

 

* * *

 

Once again, Fíli found himself staring up at a wooden ceiling, unable to calm his thoughts enough to give in to much-needed sleep. On the pallet next to his, Kíli snored lightly, moving restlessly with his dreams. Across the room, Balin moved less, but his snores echoed in the small room, and Bilbo sniffled fretfully in the corner. The Hobbit seemed to be coming down with a cold after his dunk in the river, and had glared rather balefully at Thorin during the time he had been at dinner. Dori grumbled in his sleep, a detail that the young swordsman did not recall ever noting before, and Nori's snores had an irritating whistle to them. Ori's, however, were the loudest, a direct contrast to how quiet the scribe was when awake. Fainter sounds of snoring could be heard through the thin walls as the rest of the Company slept. Thorin had his own room across the hall, and Dwalin had dragged his pallet into the passageway between the two, standing guard over his kin. The room next door held the rest of the Company, with Glóin and Bifur undoubtedly closest to the door.

The golden-haired prince sighed gustily and folded his arms behind his head, staring up at the warped wood of the ceiling, Kíli's insistence that Viska was his One running through his head. He had never considered himself superstitious. Oh, he believed in the Valar, and he honored the stories of the Dwarves' creation at the hands of Mahal, but he was not one for signs and portents. He left that to Óin, with the healer's talk of the ravens' return to Erebor foretelling Smaug's imminent downfall, or his mother, with her stories of the Mountain singing. He had never given much thought to the concept of his One. He knew that Dwarves only loved once – he had countless representations of the truth of that assertion – but the idea that Mahal had crafted someone especially for him? His soul's match? It seemed almost arrogant.

And yet...he thought of the wedded pairs that he knew back in Ered Luin. Glóin and Fla, Bombur and Eira, Brís and Banrer, even the distant memories of his parents before his father's death. All couples so perfectly suited that it was hard to imagine that they had ever been individuals – love, respect, and strength to support one another through all of the challenges of life. And he could not deny the way that Viska pulled at his heart. _Was_ she his One? _Yes_ , he realized abruptly. If such a thing existed, she was it. And if it did not, well, she was still tied to his soul, irrevocably so.

A soft groan sounded from the pallet next to him and he glanced over as Kíli flopped onto his stomach and glared through the curtain of his dark hair.

“If you don't stop that humming, _nadad_ , I'm going to smother you with your own pillow,” the archer promised fervently. “ _I_ know that you love her, her _brother_ knows that you love her, and I'm pretty certain that _she_ knows that you love her, so just admit it to yourself and go to sleep!”

 

* * *

 

Despite their late night, the Company woke early the next morning, eating a light breakfast and dressing quickly in the oversized spare clothing that had been donated by the wealthier folk of Laketown. The Man-sized shirts and child-sized trousers were mismatched and uncomfortable, but it was only a temporary measure. Dori and his brothers quickly took charge of the laundry situation, collecting everyone's gear so Nori and Ori could wash while Dori and Óin mended. The young scribe had just hung the last piece of clothing to dry when the rising noise of a crowd gathering outside drew the Dwarves' attention. Dwalin glanced quickly out the front door, then consulted with Thorin before they led the way out onto the front porch, where the Master stood surrounded by his guards. The greasy Man greeted Thorin theatrically, smiling as the rest of the Dwarves (and one congested Hobbit) took up positions surrounding and supporting their leader before he turned to the press of gaping people of the town with a flourish.

“My dear friends! Rumors have been flying since our guests arrived last night, so I wish to make an announcement!” he proclaimed. “As I am sure many of you have heard, a party of Dwarves is currently in our humble Esgaroth, and I am pleased to be able to tell you that they are led by none other than the rightful King Under the Mountain, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór! These brave folk are on their way to Erebor to reclaim their kingdom from Smaug the Terrible! Please join me in welcoming our noble guests as they prepare for the final stage of their long journey. Soon, the prophecy will be fulfilled, and the Mountain will once more send riches flowing through the land!”

A ripple of excitement surged through the crowd as the Dwarves glanced at one another in confusion. Did the Men have a prophecy about Smaug's fall as well?

“Death is what they'll bring us if they wake that dragon!” a voice called out from the crowd. There was a stir and the throng of people parted to let a tall, grim-faced Man stride forward, his dark eyes snapping as he turned to face his fellow townsfolk. “Do none of you remember the tales of the firestorm? The people of Dale dead beneath a layer of ash when Smaug descended on the Mountain? You think the dragon will not finish what he started all those years ago if these Dwarves wake him? Is the potential for prosperity worth the lives of your children?”

A nervous muttering ran through the gathering as parents clutched their young ones close and turned to the Master with fear in their faces. He was glaring at the Man, but recovered himself quickly, a sneer crossing his smug face.

“Of course Bard the Bargeman would speak out against our new friends,” he countered nastily. “Bard the _Bowman_ , descended of Girion, the Lord of Dale whose aim faltered, he who failed to slay the dragon as it burned his people! If any should be blamed for the beast's continued existence, it is your ancestor! Would you now ask me to deny aid to those who come to free us from his lurking shadow? Is your pride worth the lives of _your_ children?”

Viska felt Trisk stir at her side, his eyes narrowing sharply. “That sounded like a threat.”

“Aye,” Bofur agreed, glancing sidelong at his cousin. Bifur's hand was moving restlessly, as though reaching for his lost weapon, and several of the others of the Company had fixed hard looks on the leader of Laketown.

Bard had turned to the Master and was shaking his head. “I am not my ancestor, nor do I hold Thorin, son of Thráin, responsible for his grandfather's greed. I only ask that you, both of you, consider what consequences might befall these people as a result of your actions.” Now he fixed Thorin with a dark gaze. “You have no right to enter that Mountain.”

Thorin met his eyes, steel for steel.

“I have the _only_ right.”

“And we will see that right upheld!” the Master cried. “Welcome to Laketown, Dwarves of Erebor! Rest and restore yourselves, so you may return to your quest renewed in body and spirit!”

The gathered people cheered wildly, surging around Bard to crowd the stairs at the front of the house, the Master's guardsmen holding them back so the Dwarves could retreat inside. The Master had a few more grandiose words with Thorin, then departed with his armed escort, shoving their way through the small crowd that remained outside.

 

* * *

 

As soon as the Master left, the Company scattered to their own pursuits. Óin doused Bilbo with one of his foul-tasting concoctions and sent the suffering Hobbit back to bed, while Ori took a seat in a fall of autumn sunlight and dug out his sketchbook. Dori returned to the mending, accompanied by a resigned Nori, as Bombur picked through the remains of breakfast and his brother and cousin chatted quietly in Khuzdul. Balin and Dwalin had pulled the princes aside, to Fíli's obvious frustration, and were talking in low voices as Thorin started for the hallway. The king glanced briefly over his shoulder.

“Triskel. Viska. A word.”

The siblings exchanged a look, then followed Thorin into the room he was using as a study, closing the door behind them on Fíli's startled, concerned gaze. The king moved to gaze out the window, over the wide expanse of the Long Lake. The silversmith and the jeweler stood in silence for a long moment before the Company's leader turned to look at them.

“I did order Master Baggins to leave you behind in Mirkwood,” he admitted frankly. “Though I am glad that my sister-son intervened. Even in your deception, you have been true members of the Company and deserve better than to rot in Thranduil's dungeons.” He sighed, then fixed Triskel with that sapphire stare. “But the fact remains that you _did_ deceive me. You knew that Viska would not be permitted to join the quest, and so you lied. If she could not remain in Emyn Uial, you should have delivered her to the Blue Mountains – my sister would have welcomed her. And do not tell me that Dís encouraged your scheme – she is not the leader of this expedition, and it was still your decision.”

Trisk met Thorin's eyes steadily and nodded.

“I take full responsibility for my actions, and I do not seek to excuse them,” he replied proudly.

“We both take responsibility,” Viska interrupted. “We are both at fault, _nadad_.”

Trisk offered her a tiny smile and the king's eyes seemed to spark with pride before he shook his head and studied the two young Dwarves.

“Several members of the Company have urged me to be lenient, but this is the best that I can do,” he finally continued. “Once Erebor is retaken, you will be welcome there. Your father's memory and your own deeds have earned you that much. There will be much to do for the restoration, and the trades that you follow will certainly be needed in the future. You will still receive your shares of the treasure, as well. However,” he met each of their gazes in turn, his face set and serious. “When we leave for Erebor, you will remain behind. We go to face a dragon, and I will not risk you, lass. Nor would I ask your brother to leave you here alone. I will speak to the Master. He need not know why, only that two of our number must remain behind until the dragon is settled. He will see to it that you have a place to stay.”

Viska stared at him in confusion. “Risk me? What do you mean? Have I not shown that I can take care of myself?” she demanded, her voice rising with frustration and outrage. “I am no wilting noble Dwarrowmaid who needs to be coddled and hidden from the world!”

Trisk stirred and opened his mouth to speak, but Thorin raised a quelling hand and shook his head. When his dark eyes met hers, they were kinder than she ever remembered seeing them for any but his nephews. Stepping around the desk, he placed a hand on each of her shoulders and looked down into her face.

“You mistake me, Daughter of Kulvik,” he stated quietly, his voice filled with compassion. “I know that you are a fighter, that you have done your share and more since we left the Shire. But we may yet have to face a dragon – the beast that nearly destroyed our people. I do not know if any of us will survive. Those who would not join us thought this would end in death for all, and perhaps they were right. I do not doubt your heart, _zagrûna_ , or your courage. I seek only to protect the beloved daughter of my lost comrade. You are a lass, and we have few enough of those, but beyond that you are _Viska_ , daughter of Kulvik, and it would be a poor repayment for your father's friendship if I were to risk your life needlessly. If all goes well, we will return to Laketown to await the arrival of Dáin's armies. Then, you and Trisk will join us in Erebor when the dragon is dead.”

Viska stared at her king as he stepped away, her gut churning with conflicting emotions. She glanced at her brother, then turned back to Thorin, taking a deep breath to brace herself.

“And if it does not go well?”

His eyes flicked to her face and he nodded silently, producing a sealed letter written on a page from Ori's journal. Viska stared at it until her brother took it and tucked it into his coat. Thrór's son kept his gaze on her. “Then I would ask you to travel to the Iron Hills and let Dáin know of what has happened. Ask him to help you return to Ered Luin and bear the news to my sister. Dis will deserve to hear it from someone who cared about her sons.”

 

* * *

 

Fíli had lost any remaining interest in the conversation that he was having with Balin, Dwalin, and his brother when he heard Viska's voice raised behind the door to Thorin's “study.” He was moving without conscious thought, every protective instinct on high alert when Dwalin clamped a hand on his forearm.

“Easy, lad. She's in no danger,” the warrior assured him, his voice a low rumble as Kíli bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to follow his brother if needed. Fíli glanced at his weapons trainer, one of his uncle's oldest friends, and saw sympathy in the dark eyes. The prince relaxed slightly, but could not help another glance at the closed door.

“He's not letting them come with us, is he?” he asked finally, seeking Balin's gentle gaze. The old councilor shook his head and Fíli closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as relief and anxiety battled in his gut.

“It's for her own safety, laddie,” Balin assured him.

“And ours,” Dwalin added. “Most of the Company would risk themselves for that lass, whether she wanted it or no, and endanger themselves in the process. It will be better if she stays here, and her brother will stay with her. She'll not be left alone.”

“But she'll not be with me.” That was what hurt. He understood, in his head, that it was safer for her to remain behind, but some small, selfish part of him wanted her at his side. He heard Kíli sigh gustily and he opened his eyes to glance at his brother, surprised that he was not arguing. The raven-haired archer met his gaze and shrugged.  
“I want to argue, as much as you do,” he answered the unspoken question. “But, they are right. As much as it pains me to admit it,” he added with a sly sidelong look at the older warriors. Dwalin smirked and let go of Fíli's arm as the door opened and the siblings from Emyn Uial emerged, unscathed. Green eyes sought him out and a tiny smile flickered across Viska's face as he moved to embrace her warmly.

“I am sorry, _kurdê_ ,” he murmured quietly. “I know you deserve to stand beside us.”

She nodded, then pressed her forehead to his in silent understanding. “We will wait for you to return, our burglar triumphant,” she replied with a small smile before stepping back. “Thorin wants to speak to the four of you,” she continued, her gaze taking in Fíli, Kíli, Balin, and Dwalin. “Trisk and I will be out in Laketown for a bit, with Bifur, if he will join us.”

The golden-haired prince nodded, but hesitated as the others went into the study. He gave her a final smile and squeezed her hand before letting go.

“Stay out of trouble, if you can,” he warned with a glint of humor, glancing at Trisk with a warning in his eyes. The auburn-haired Dwarrow nodded and gave him a tiny bow, hand over his heart. “Stay away from the Master. I do not trust him.”

“No more do I,” Trisk replied grimly. “We are only going to the market. Thorin wants to know more about the actual people of Laketown. Any that choose to rebuild Dale will be our neighbors and allies, and the king would know as much about them as he can...from more trusted sources than our friend the Master.”

Fíli nodded tightly, then signed briefly to Bifur before hurrying into the study and closing the door. The wild-haired toymaker joined the siblings with a smile, looking more disreputable than ever in his mismatched donated clothing. He grinned cheerily at the youngsters, hands moving quickly.

_Out for a bit of exploring?_

Viska smiled. “Yes, my friend, if you'll join us. Are you up for a bit of reconnaissance in a village of Men?”

Bifur's grin became slightly more predatory.

_Always_.

 

* * *

 

A life spent in a predominantly Dwarven settlement had not prepared Viska for the realities of a crowded town of Men, where her companions could disappear behind the taller forms in a heartbeat. There was no overt aggression from the people of Esgaroth – most of them tended toward a hopeful curiosity, while dull suspicion and distrust were the worst greetings that they encountered. They avoided the guardsmen where possible, but did not fail to note the arrogant attitude that many of them displayed toward the common folk of the town. Trisk shook his head disapprovingly as one with an ornate helmet shoved his way through a small gathering, nearly knocking an elderly Man to the walkway.

_How can they allow it?_ The Dwarrowmaid's hands flew through the iglishmêk signs indignantly, eyes bright behind her concealing scarf. Bifur smiled at her sadly.

_It is what they know._

_There is tension here_ , Trisk added, his eyes narrowing as he watched the people around them, the small hints of rebellion carefully enacted behind the backs of the guardsmen. _It will not stand much longer. They are nearly ready to rise up. The timing of our arrival may be perfect._

Viska nodded without replying, taking mental notes as they edged their way through the bustling crowd of Men. They had been in the market for most of the afternoon when she turned from a display of herbs and nearly trod on a wide-eyed girl child with a sweet face. The little girl was a bit taller than the Dwarrowmaid, with curly dark hair and huge hazel eyes, and she stared at them in innocent curiosity, a bright smile of wonder on her face.

“Are you really Dwarves?” she asked excitedly. “You look like a child. Why do you cover your face? Do all Dwarves?”

Viska held up a hand to slow the flow of questions and the girl's eyes widened further.

“You _are_ a Dwarf!” she exclaimed breathlessly, holding up her own slender hand to compare to the Dwarf lass's. Viska chuckled and nodded, kicking Trisk in the shin to get his attention. He turned and the girl shrank back a little, looking nervous.

“I'm sorry, Mister Dwarf. I just never met a stone man before.”

Trisk smiled and shot a confused look at Viska, who shrugged.

“No worries, little lass,” he told her with a small bow. “We are indeed Dwarves. I am Trisk, and this is Visk. Our friend back there is Bifur. He's a toymaker.”

She peered at their escort dubiously and Bifur bowed, gifting her with one of his gentle smiles. She smiled back tentatively.

“Til! What are you doing? I told you to stay-oh!”

A taller girl with similar features had rounded the corner and stopped abruptly as she spotted the child talking to the Dwarves. Trisk bowed to her as well, hoping he wasn't about to have a pair of hysterical daughters of Men on his hands.

“Sigrid, I met Dwarves!” the younger sang out, pointing to each of them in turn. “Mister Tris, Mister Visk, and Mister Bifur! He makes toys!” The last was delivered in a loud, incredulous whisper that made Viska laugh quietly. Sigrid rolled her eyes at her sister's behavior, then seemed to remember herself and gave a sketchy curtsy.

“My apologies if she was bothering you,” she murmured. “She was supposed to be staying close to me.”

“No bother,” Trisk assured her with a smile. “As she said, I am Trisk, this is Visk, and our companion is Bifur. He does not speak Westron, but he does understand it.”

“Sigrid,” the girl replied, ducking her head in acknowledgment. “And my sister, Tilda. She's usually a bit better behaved.”

Trisk laughed. “Oh, I understand the frustrations of a younger sibling,” he assured her, deliberately ignoring the dirty look he was getting from his own. Tilda, for her part, was giving Sigrid a rather indignant frown, but the elder ignored it, studying the Dwarves with shy curiosity.

“You are with the king?” she asked after a moment. “The Dwarves of Erebor?”

“We are with the Company,” he confirmed, “but we are not among the royalty. We are simple folk. I am a silversmith, in fact. Or, I was. I hope to be able to do it again one day. Visk is a jewelry-maker.”

“Not warriors? But I thought...aren't you going to face the dragon?” she asked in confusion. “Surely that would take an army, or at least a few great warriors?”

“Ah...we hope to be a bit more clever and sneaky than that,” he replied. “But yes, all of us can fight, and some are chiefly warriors. More than that, we are pilgrims who seek to reclaim our home.”

Sigrid stared at him, her face unreadable, except for her eyes, which shone with compassion.

“Then I wish you the best of luck, Master Trisk,” she told him, sincerity ringing in her gentle voice.

“Sig! Tilda! C'mon, Da's waiting!”

Sigrid turned and waved to a curly-haired boy, then caught Tilda's hand with a final smile for the Dwarves. “That's my brother, Bain,” she explained quickly. “We'll need to go. It was nice to meet you!”

Tilda waved enthusiastically as the girls hurried away, and the Dwarves waved back, smiling. Viska laughed quietly as she watched them go, then glanced at the sky and frowned. Bifur followed her gaze and nodded, arching a brow at Trisk.

_Getting late._

The silversmith nodded. “We'd best return,” he agreed. “Before Fíli sends out a search party for Viska.”

He didn't move fast enough to avoid her elbow in his ribs, and Bifur was no help, simply laughing uproariously as they hurried back through the walkways of Laketown.

 

* * *

 

Tauriel and Legolas watched from the cover of Mirkwood as darkness settled across the Long Lake. The small band of Orcs had camped just at the edge of the woods, where they could observe Laketown but would still be able to disappear into the forest if spotted by the Men. They had not yet realized that they were being followed by Elves – or they did not care. They were only two, after all, and the twisted creatures had no way of knowing that the Captain of the Guard and the Crown Prince were more formidable foes than they appeared. For now, however, the Elves were content to watch, and wait.

“Are they afraid to enter the town?” Legolas murmured quietly, blue eyes glinting in the moonlight. “I doubt such a poor town of Men would be able to stand against even that small pack.”

Tauriel shook her head. “No. They know the Dwarves are there, and they know that when they leave, they will head directly for the Mountain. I think they are waiting for orders, or for Oakenshield to lead his folk out of the town.”

“Which means more might be on their way. Tauriel, we should return and bear this news to my father.”

“You are free to do so, _mellon-nin_ ” she told him gently, unwilling to hold him against his will. She was surprised that he had followed her at all. “But I cannot leave the Dwarves to their tender mercies. We disarmed them when we took them prisoner – do you think Esgaroth can offer them much in the way of weapons? They will be next to helpless if the Orcs seek to take them on the road to Erebor.”  
“They should have thought of that before they escaped,” the golden-haired prince muttered softly. Tauriel shot him an amused glance and he sighed. “Very well. We will wait.”

 

* * *

 

_It is in sleep that he is most vulnerable, the time when the conscious protections of his mind are weakest, and it is in sleep that it reaches out to him to continue its work. The foundation was laid long ago, the seed planted before even the great fire drake descended to claim the treasure horde of his people. The beguiling song works its way deep into the darkest portions of his self, where he has sought to bury his flaws and failings, and there the power takes root._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> kurdê – my heart  
> zagrûna – sword lady
> 
> mellon-nin – my friend


	20. The Gathering Storm

_His senses are filled with gold. He is surrounded by it, a glimmering ocean of coins and precious objects that stretches as far as his eyes can see, cool and smooth beneath his hands. The slide and clink of endless shifting is in his ears, while the metallic tang in the air teases his nose and tingles on his tongue._ _It is everywhere, and it is everything. It is his, and no one will prevent him from reclaiming it...._

 

* * *

 

He woke with a start, barely realizing that a dark formed loomed over his his bed before he was reacting with battle-honed reflexes, one hand lunging for the attacker's throat as the other snatched at blankets to bind and blind.

“ _B_ _â_ _ha_!”

Thorin froze, the Khuzdul word for 'friend' easing his sleep-hazed mind even before he registered the familiar voice. The first light of dawn filtering in through the curtains faintly illuminated the blunt features as Dwalin stepped back, hands held up to show that he was unarmed.

“You were snarling in your sleep, Thorin. I just came in to be sure all was well.”

The king swung his legs out to sit on the edge of the bed, scrubbing both hands over his face.

“A nightmare, old friend,” he admitted quietly. “Or...something. I am not quite certain.”

Keen dark eyes studied him with concern as a hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“Still have that pain in your head? Want me to fetch Óin?”  
  
Thorin sighed and dropped his hands, focusing on the throbbing feeling inside his skull. It was not so sharp as it had been the night before, when it had felt as though some craftsman was boring a hole into his head, and the faint ghost of a melody that had plagued him was silent. Finally, he shook his head. “It is there, but it is duller now, more distant. I will be fine.” The warrior continued to glower at him and he smiled slightly. “If it gets worse again, I will ask Óin for something, cousin. Will that satisfy you?”

Dwalin snorted and gave a small nod before removing his hand and stepping back. “I suppose it will have to, won't it?” he asked rhetorically. “Mind you, I'll have the lads keep an eye on you all the same.”

“Of course you will. And they think Dori is the mother hen of the Company.”

The Dwarf slid out of the oversized bed and dressed quickly, glancing at his cousin as he stamped his boots into place.

“How is our burglar feeling?”

“Still sleeping last I saw. Óin said it was normal, he gave him some strong medicine for that cold of his, trying to knock it out before we leave for the Mountain.”

“Everyone else is awake, then?”

“Aye. Dori and his brothers are finishing the last of the mending and altering the larger clothes to replace what cannot be fixed. Balin is finalizing the supply list to send to the Master, and Bombur, Bofur, and Óin will take it over before midday. Glóin and I will going out to see what kind of weapons these Lakefolk have to offer.”

Thorin nodded absently. “Take Fíli and Kíli with you,” he commented. “Hopefully, you will need the help carrying back what we can use.”

The bald warrior nodded. “Bifur will be going out with Trisk and the lass again, if you still want them watching the townsfolk.”

“I do. I know you think it is just busywork, Dwalin, and in a way it is. It is kinder to keep them out of the way while preparations are made. But they brought back quite a bit of interesting information last evening.”

“That they did,” he conceded. “Just...they'll need some time with the lads before we go, Thorin.”

“I know.”

He watched the warrior precede him out of the room, trying to focus his thoughts on preparations for the next several days. He was certain of the course he had chosen, especially in regard to the siblings from Emyn Uial. He would not risk the lass, and he would not leave her behind alone. He just wished there wasn't something teasing the edge of his mind about her relationship with his nephews. They were close, he could see that much, but Kíli called her 'sister,' rather than 'love,' so what was it that he was missing?

_Could it be...Fíli?_

The thought hit him like a bolt of lightning and he froze in the doorway, deep sapphire eyes unseeing as he considered it. He remembered the elder lad being frequently lost in thought, especially since the Carrock, the Song of the Mountain a deep rumble in his chest. It had reminded him of Dís in the days when she was realizing her interest in Torvi, but Kíli had mentioned a lass in Ered Luin, hadn't he?

_But that was when they were helping her hide_ , he realized. Of course Kíli would offer an easily-accepted explanation for his brother's distraction. If the golden-haired prince was thinking of a lass from home, he might receive gentle teasing, but no real questions would be asked. With this new possibility resounding in his mind, the Dwarf lord sorted through his memories of the journey since the Carrock and was amazed by the many tiny gestures that he had glimpsed but not registered. He had not been looking for them, of course. He had no reason to do so, until now. It was Fíli. It had always been Fíli. The calm, responsible eldest, so much like his even-tempered father, who had in turn been the perfect foil to Dís's spitfire temper.

In the common room of the house, the lass was talking quietly with her brother and the princes, throwing her head back to laugh at one of Kíli's jokes. No longer the silent enigma behind the hood and scarf, she was free within these walls to be the spirited lass who had faced down Goblins in a fiery building. His gaze went to his eldest nephew, noting the love that shone in Fíli's eyes as he laughed with her. How had he missed it?

Thorin turned quickly, before the young Dwarves realized that he was watching them, and strode over to the table, where Balin had set aside a portion of breakfast for him. A tiny smile teased the king's lips as he sat next to his cousin, and Balin raised one bushy white eyebrow.

“You're in a pleasant mood, for one my brother roused from a snarling nightmare,” he commented softly.

“Let's simply say that I have had a glimpse of the future, cousin,” Thorin replied quietly, “and it is brighter than I had realized.”

Balin nodded with a puzzled look on his face, but did not inquire further, simply returning to his own meal. Thorin took a few bites before resuming the conversation that had been interrupted by his headache the night before, concerning the supplies they would need for the last part of their journey. Finally able to concentrate, he did not notice when the dull throb at his temples began to grow once more, or when the faint strains of the eerie melody began to weave their magic.

 

* * *

 

The other groups had already left on their various errands before Trisk, Viska, and Bifur headed out to wander Laketown for the second day. They felt comfortable once more, with their gear clean and mended (or replaced by donated clothing that had been altered by Dori's talented needle), and Bifur hummed tunelessly to himself as his hand fidgeted restlessly with a carved wooden toy in his pocket. Viska was quiet, but seemed thoughtful rather than brooding, so Trisk simply nudged her shoulder affectionately and let her walk in silence. For his part, he exchanged friendly greetings with folk he had met the day before and sent reassuring smiles toward several shy children that watched the Dwarves curiously, but did not approach. Well, except for one.

“Mister Tris! Mister Visk! Mister Bif!”

Trisk chuckled as he turned toward the voice, then laughed outright as he watched Sigrid roll her eyes and lunge after her little sister. Tilda, however, seemed to have anticipated her sister's reaction, and ducked nimbly out of the way so she could dart over to her new friends. All three Dwarves offered the girls bows as they approached, and Sigrid dropped a slight curtsy that Tilda tried to emulate before launching into three questions at once.

“Are you exploring? D'you want me to show you the best places? Would you come to tea?”

“Til! What has Da told you?” Sigrid scolded gently, pulling the younger girl out of the middle of the walkway so they would not hinder traffic. Tilda sighed.

“Slow down, breathe, one question at a time,” she recited dutifully. She grinned at Bifur. “Da says I ask too many questions,” she confided. The toymaker shook his head firmly and produced the small carved figure that he had been carrying, speaking quietly in Khuzdul as he glanced at Trisk.

“Bifur says there's no such thing as too many questions, for how else are you to learn?” the silversmith translated with a smile. “Though perhaps one at a time would make it easier for others to answer them for you.”

Tilda giggled, her eye caught by the toy in Bifur's hands. “What is that?”

The wild-haired Dwarf smiled and reached out to take her hand gently, pressing the gift into it. “Z _arsmuzmnat,”_ he stated firmly. Then he pointed at the girl herself. “ _Z_ _arsmuzmnat_ _ith_ ,” he added with a nod.

“A squirrel,” Trisk supplied. “For a little squirrel. He says your curiosity and eagerness for answers reminds him of a squirrel.”

Bifur nodded and tapped Tilda's shoulder. “Z _arsmuzmnat_ _ith_ ,” he repeated.

“I think you have earned a nickname,” Trisk told her with a smile. Eyes shining, Tilda glanced at her sister, her smile widening when Sigrid nodded.

“Thank you, Mister Bifur!” Handing the toy to her sister for a moment, Tilda threw herself at the fierce-looking Dwarf and hugged him tightly. Bifur returned it gently, mindful of her tiny frame, and smiled even more widely when she broke away and collected the toy from Sigrid so she could study every detail of the lifelike carving. The older girl watched her fondly, then nodded to Bifur, something shining in her eyes that belied her youth.

“Thank you, Mister Bifur. The toy is lovely, and perfect. You captured Tilda's spirit accurately after knowing her only a few moments!”

Bifur nodded to her, then reached out to pat her arm. “ _Amdith_ ,” he murmured softly, offering a smile. Her brow wrinkled and she glanced at Trisk for help.

“It means 'little mother,'” Viska spoke up quietly. “He is impressed by the way you care for your sister. You lost your mother?”

Sigrid nodded, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Ma died shortly after Til's birth,” she replied softly. “I have looked after her and Bain since then. So yes, I guess 'little mother' describes me as well as 'little squirrel' describes her.” Turning back to Bifur, she offered a slightly unsteady curtsy. “Thank you again, Mister Bifur. It was nice to see you again, Mister Trisk, Mister Visk,” she added. “But we need to be heading home. I have laundry to finish, then it'll be time to start dinner. Perhaps we will see you again before you leave for the Mountain?”

“Perhaps,” Trisk replied. “Be well, Miss Sigrid, Miss Tilda.”

 

Without the distracting company of the two girls, the rest of the afternoon passed slowly as the three Dwarves wandered the walkways of Laketown. Rather than staying in the market, they broadened their area a bit, visiting some of the permanent shops and simply watching the people as they interacted with one another and with the representatives of the Master, whether guard or the weasel-like Alfrid, who they had managed to dodge twice. They gathered some information for Thorin, but none of what they saw altered Trisk's opinion of the previous day. The peace in Laketown was a thin veneer, a calm before a storm. The people were reaching the end of their tolerance of the Master, and the silversmith could only wonder how unaware the selfish Man really was.

 

* * *

 

Something was different...wrong. Viska could tell as soon as they entered the house that evening that something had happened to alter the mood of the Company, and not for the better. The atmosphere was thick with tension, and she noticed Dori and Glóin giving her dark looks like they had just after the escape from Mirkwood. Neither Dwarf had spoken to her since, but they had been involved enough in the planning and preparations for the journey not to trouble with her, until now. Exchanging concerned looks with her brother, she quickly collected a plate of food from the common table and took a seat away from the others where she could eat and watch quietly. Trisk joined her immediately, and it was only a few moments before Fíli and Kíli excused themselves from the larger group and came over. The golden prince had lines of strain around his eyes, and his dark brother seemed troubled.

“What's happened?” she asked as Fíli sat next to her, leaning back against the wall with a sigh. He groaned.

“We went to see what kind of weapons the Men could give us,” Kíli answered quietly. “The options were...less than ideal.”

“They were pathetic,” Fíli corrected. “We didn't expect Dwarven craftsmanship, nor Dwarven size, which was going to make it awkward enough. But whoever the Master's smith is, he should never have made it past Journeyman, even among Men.”

“Good thing you aren't planning to have to use them, then,” Trisk offered with half a smile. “Is that why everyone is so tense?”

“Partly,” Kíli replied, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of the Company. “Bilbo is starting to get over his cold, so he should be back in shape by Durin's Day. The main thing, though, is...” he trailed off, looking unsure how to continue.

“It's Thorin,” Fíli finished, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “His mood has...darkened since this morning.”

“Is the pain in his head back?” Viska asked, a jolt of concern going through her. Fíli nodded, the same worry in his blue eyes.

“Worse than last night, he says, and now he's hearing music.”

“Music?”

“A faint melody, just on the edge of hearing, is how he describes it,” Kíli told them. “Óin gave him something for the headache, and Thorin said he didn't hear the music any more, but I don't know if that's the truth or what he wants us to believe.”

“His temper is deteriorating, as well,” Fíli put in grimly. “Dori and Glóin blame you two, for some reason, even though it was clear this morning that Thorin had lost most of his anger toward you.”

“We've been gone most of the day,” Trisk pointed out. “What could we have done to anger him when we were out at his request?”

“Exactly,” Kíli replied with a small laugh.

Viska sighed quietly, setting down her empty plate and leaning slightly into Fíli's shoulder. “Perhaps he is just tired,” she offered with a small shrug. “And anxious. Durin's Day is so close, and he has worked toward this goal for so long. The hopes of all of the Exiles are at stake, the future of our people. That is a heavy burden, even for a king.”

“Perhaps.”

The four young Dwarrow sat in heavy silence for a long moment, each lost in his or her own thoughts of the past and future. Viska's were a whirling maelstrom of conflicting emotions. She dreaded the Company's departure in two days' time, but she was also eager for their return from the Lonely Mountain, a summons safely sent to Dáin so that he could begin the mustering of the Dwarven armies. So much still to do, and yet it all felt so close. And it would truly begin with Durin's Day, now only a few days away.

 

* * *

 

In the depths of the night, his mind clouded by the medicine that Óin had given him for his cold, Bilbo Baggins revisited a memory, a conversation overheard on the far side of the Misty Mountains.

 

_It is far past midnight on Midsummer Morn, and the gardens of Rivendell are filled with quiet song as Bilbo wanders in_ _silent_ _contemplation. The Dwarves are exchanging loud tales and raucous jokes around a bright fire pit, having prepared for an early morning departure, but the Hobbit simply wants to spend these last hours storing memories of the enchanted valley. He is paying little attention to the path he follows, and is surprised when he hears Lord Elrond's voice, followed quickly by Gandalf's. A glance shows that the wizard and the venerable Elf lord are not actually close by – they merely follow a nearby path that leads to an isolated open building encircled by a flowing stream. They are far enough away not to notice him, but some trick of the valley carries their words to his ears with crystal clarity._

_“Do you truly think this wise? That dragon has slept for sixty years – would it not be better to let him lie?”_

_Lord Elrond's voice is smooth and calm, but the words are enough to send a chill down Bilbo's spine. If the Lord of Rivendell doubts the wisdom of their venture, the Hobbit will be the first to cast his vote for canceling the entire expedition. Then Gandalf speaks, and the wizard sounds very different from the affable, slightly eccentric persona that he has worn thus far. Instead, there is solemnity, and wisdom, and deep concern in his voice as he counters the opinion of one of the most powerful Elves in Middle Earth._

_“What makes you think that he will continue to sleep?” he asks quietly. “No matter what we do, or don't do, Smaug will eventually wake. Would it not be better for it to happen at a time of our choosing? When we have the united armies of the Dwarves, and the Wood Elves, if I can manage it, ready to face him? Allies in Erebor would strengthen the defenses of the East, and the Dwarves deserve the chance to reclaim their homeland. That throne is Thorin's birthright.”_

_Elrond does not speak for a long moment, but even at a distance, the Halfling can tell that the warning has struck a chord. Finally, the Elf meets the wizard's gaze._

_“And the Arkenstone?”_

_Gandalf shakes his head. “The Arkenstone should hold no power over Thorin,” he replies confidently. “When Thrór's sanity began to crumble, I warned Thráin never to let his kin lay hands on the Stone. Thorin was little more than a child when Erebor fell – he would not have touched it. Any lure that it might have should be easily countered by the Mountain.” The wizard's head lowers, his chin sinking into his chest as he stands for several long minutes in contemplation and memory before meeting Elrond's steady gaze once more. “Thrór's grief made him vulnerable, but his son was more wary, and I will make sure that his grandson is warier still. Bilbo will bring out the Stone, and I will have warned Thorin long before then to let the Hobbit bear it until the armies stand ready. Then, once Smaug is dead, we will return it to its deep tomb. Unlike Durin's Bane, it cannot climb out again on its own.”_

_Elrond nods, his face filled with compassion. “You would see Thráin's son free of the burdens of the past.”_

_Gandalf sighs. “I would see the entirety of the Line of Durin so unburdened, untainted by that cursed jewel, free to lead the Seven Families as a united front. They are good folk.”_

_The Elf lord smiles and turns to continue along the stone bridge. “Ever the Dwarves stood against our ancient Enemy, and never did one of them fall willingly under his thrall. I hold no anger for the Dwarves, Mithrandir, you know this. But it is not up to us to redraw the map of Middle Earth. We are not its only guardians.”_

_The wizard turns a shrewd gaze on him. “Who has come to you, mellon-nin?”_

_“Curunír has called a meeting of the White Council, my old friend.”_

_Gray eyebrows climb toward the brim of the tall gray hat. “Saruman is here? And the Lady?”  
“We go to join them now.”_

_Gandalf nods and strides forward with renewed determination. “Very well. Perhaps it is for the best. I have further news for them, and you – news that may put Thorin Oakenshield's quest into perspective.”_

 

The dream faded away with the ending of the memory and the Hobbit turned in his sleep, settling in once more as he found a more comfortable position. The dream and memory would fade in the morning light, leaving only the faintest wisp of knowledge in the deepest part of his subconscious mind.

 

* * *

 

Across the hall, Thorin tossed and turned in his own dream-memory, though his was much older, of a time more than a century gone.

 

_The prince knows that he is playing with fire, but he is young and proud, and it is too late to back down now. His brother is pale with terror, Frerin's light blue eyes wide beneath the unruly copper curls. The other lads are caught between fear and awe. They never expected the Prince Under the Mountain to take the dare, and young Dwalin looks like he is beginning to regret ever opening his mouth. But the challenge has been issued and accepted, and Thorin will not be dissuaded. Steeling himself, he ignores the nervous churning in his gut and the warning screaming in his head. It is such a small thing, just a quick dash into the Throne Room to touch that shimmering gem that sparks above the throne. His grandfather will be livid if he is caught, but more than that, his father will be disappointed. To Thrór, the Arkenstone is precious beyond imagination and he guards it jealously. Thráin, however, views it with concern and suspicion and has forbidden his children to touch it. That is what drags at the heir's heart and slows his steps – his father's troubled eyes, not his grandfather's expression of greedy rapture._

_“Thor, you don't have to,” Frerin murmurs, keeping his voice low and glancing sideways at their cousins and companions. Thorin smiles, finding amusement in the fact that it is his mischievous younger brother advising caution for once._

_“It'll be fine, Frer,” he responds, his eyes flickering around the empty throne room. “Just keep an eye out, nadadith.” The younger lad sighs and shakes his head._

_“I don't want to be heir, Thorin,” he warns finally. “If you get caught, and Thrór kills you, I will come drag you out of the Halls of Mandos before I'll take that throne.”_

_The elder chuckles. “I would expect nothing less, brother.”_

_He steps forward, just short of the side door that leads into the echoing cavern that serves as the Throne Room. The throne itself stands at the intersection of the three marble walkways, an imposing seat carved from the marble of the Lonely Mountain itself. Taking a deep breath, the prince shoots one last look at the great doors, closed and unmoving, and then he is dashing forward. His boots make far too much noise on the stone floor as he jogs forward, and he winces but does not slow. Finally, one foot is on the step at the base of the throne, his left hand on the arm as he jumps up. Then the other foot is on the seat, and the reaching fingers of his right hand brush the glowing surface of the Arkenstone oh-so-briefly. He can hear the collective gasp and he smiles, but he does not stop moving. A moment later, he is back on the floor, racing for the safety of side chamber. Then he is through the door, gasping for breath as his heart rate slows, a disbelieving grin on his face that is returned by his friends._

_He has done it. He has crept into the Throne Room of Erebor and touched the Arkenstone, the King's Jewel. His hand tingles still and he laughs breathlessly, amazed at his own daring. Then the others are crowding around him, laughing in awe, and they hurry down through the halls toward the training arena. Thorin leads the way, unaware that he has sown the seed of future sorrow. The alluring call of the Stone is not audible to the underage prince, so he will not yet be plagued by the headaches and phantom music that disturb his father. But he has touched the Stone, and it has touched him, as well. He has given it access to the deepest recesses of his mind, where now a kernel of its power takes root._

 

_* * *_

 

The next morning, Thorin was choking down willow bark tea in his study and talking quietly with Balin when a tentative knock on the open door alerted him to the presence of his nephews. Grimacing, he set the tea aside and waved the lads in, raising an eyebrow when Kíli closed the door quietly behind them.

“How is your head?” Fíli asked quietly, concern shining in those kind eyes that were so like Frerin's.

“It has been better,” the king answered shortly, regretting it when the lad winced at the implied rebuke. He sighed. “It makes me short-tempered, as you can tell, so take my gruffness as a symptom rather than a reaction to you. Did you want to talk to me about something?”

The golden-haired prince glanced at his brother and Thorin watched in puzzlement as the archer shrugged and nodded before Fíli turned to face him once more.

“It's about tomorrow.”

The elder Dwarf sighed, closing his eyes as he massaged the bridge of his nose to ease the sudden surge of pain in his head.

“If you are here to change my mind about leaving Triskel and Viska, save your breath,” he warned quietly. “They will await the Company's return with the Arkenstone.”

Fíli nodded shortly. “Kíli and I would like to stay, as well.”

Thorin froze, his hand dropping from his face as he stared at his heir. Something dark began churning in his gut, some deep anger that he did not recognize, and when he spoke, his voice was a growl.

“You would throw aside this quest, the chance to free your homeland, for a lass?”

Fíli actually flinched and Kíli stepped to his brother's side, supportive as always.

“It's not like you need us,” the raven-haired prince argued. “Bilbo is the only really important one. He'll be going in to fetch the Arkenstone. Gandalf said we shouldn't even go in, lest Smaug recognize the smell of Dwarf!”

“Do not use Gandalf's words as an excuse for your desertion,” the king snarled, anger bubbling through him. “I have raised you on tales of the Mountain, you both _begged_ to be allowed to accompany me on this quest, and now you would turn aside, cast it all away, for a-”

“Thorin!” Balin, silent until now, stared at him in shock.

“Do not finish that sentence, Thorin,” Fíli rumbled, his eyes darkening with storm clouds. “If you are angry with me, take it out on me. Do not cast aspersions on Viska. She has nothing to do with this.”

“Except being the reason you would turn your back on your people!” Thorin spat. “There will be no discussion. You are _Rayyud Durinul._ You will enter Erebor at my side, or not at all.”

There was silence for a long moment, then the brothers glanced at one another and drew themselves up stiffly.

“As you say, Your Majesty,” Fíli murmured, offering a deep bow. Kíli matched it, his dark eyes smoldering with anger and his jaw clenched. They turned for the door in unison, their posture screaming outrage and fury.

 

* * *

 

Balin watched Fíli and Kíli strode from the room, backs straight and heads high, the younger prince casting one last bewildered and angry look back at their uncle before closing the door rather harder than was strictly necessary. Heaving a sigh, the old warrior shook his head and raised one bushy white eyebrow at his cousin.

“There was no need to snap at the lads like that, Thorin,” he commented mildly, a sense of unease stirring in him as he noted the distant look in the king's eyes. The dark glower was becoming almost permanent, smiles nearly nonexistent. As the mood of the rest of the Company seemed to lighten as they gathered supplies for the last leg of the journey, their leader's darkened until he was short and ill-tempered with even his young heirs. Balin was troubled – the kind of concern that he would have shared with Gandalf if the wizard had been with them. But he was gone, on an urgent errand that he had not shared, and they could only hope that he would rejoin them before they entered Erebor. “You have been distracted and preoccupied since we arrived in Laketown,” he added after a long moment, watching Thorin's reaction carefully, “and it grows worse by the day. What is wrong?”

Thorin's head swung toward him, sapphire eyes blazing, and he seemed about to give a harsh reply, but then a wave of frustration and regret swept across his face and he sighed, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand. “I do not know,” he admitted finally. “There is...something...I do not...” He seemed to search for a way to put it into words before shaking his head dismissively. And just like that, an expressionless mask slid into place. “It is nothing. I am simply focused on our goal.”

“The Mountain,” Balin agreed.  
  
“The Arkenstone,” Thorin corrected.

The adviser's eyes widened and the churning in his gut intensified.

“Aye,” he agreed cautiously, “but the Stone is only the means to the end, cousin, and the end is to reclaim the Mountain for our people, is it not?”

Again, that dark look, as though he had angered Thorin, before it melted away. This time, however, the expression that took its place was cool and calculating, and all the more terrifying.

“Of course,” the king confirmed smoothly, rising from his chair and never meeting Balin's eyes. “But first, we must have the Stone.”

He turned and strode from the room, leaving the old councilor staring after him in concern and shock.

“As you say.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Rayyud Durinul – Heirs of Durin


	21. Stolen Moments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is all I have for the moment, updates will probably be once a week from here on!

After hearing Thorin's thunderous growl behind the closed door, Dwalin was not surprised when Fíli and Kíli stormed out a few minutes later, nearly slamming the door behind them. Their jaws were set, and while Kíli looked hurt and bewildered, blue fire flashed in Fíli's eyes. The elder prince's gaze darted around the room, flicking across each member of the Company dismissively until it lit on the two that had just come out of the hallway. The change that came over the lad's face then caused a lump to rise in the bald warrior's throat, and it told him more than any words about what had grown between the prince and lass from Emyn Uial. Fíli's expression eased when he saw the Dwarrowmaid, the anger in his eyes banking to fierce affection as he strode to her side, his dark-haired shadow only a step behind. Viska glanced up with a smile, but something in his face gave her pause and those intelligent green eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Care for some company in Laketown?” the prince asked with slightly forced cheer. Trisk cocked his head curiously, looking from his sister to Fíli and back again.

“Bifur not coming?” he asked quietly. The golden-haired lad hesitated and Dwalin spoke up, knowing Thorin probably would not be best pleased with his assisting this little rebellion, but unable to bring himself to care.

“Actually, I'd appreciate Bifur's help with my own project, if he doesn't mind,” he commented, signing surreptitiously to the toymaker. Bifur responded with a wide grin and eager nod, then turned to the quartet, making shooing motions with his hands. Trisk shrugged and strode toward the door, Fíli and Viska just behind him as the lass tucked her scarf into place around her face. Kíli brought up the rear, tipping Dwalin a wink and a grateful smile.

The front door had barely closed behind the four young Dwarrow when the door to Thorin's study opened once more and the king himself strode out, his face a mask of impassivity that was completely foreign to those who knew him. He did not pause, or even look around the room, simply barked a demand for Óin's personal blend of feverfew, which told Dwalin that the headache was back in full force. Grimacing, the warrior hurried into the study to find his brother standing silently near the window, his expression a neutral mask that might have fooled anyone else. Balin's pale blue eyes flickered toward the younger Dwarf and he could not conceal the worry they held. Dwalin grunted and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“What happened, _nadad_? I saw the lads. What was that about?”

Balin sighed and passed a hand over his face.

“They asked to stay behind in Laketown, rather than go to the Mountain.”

“Ah.” It surprised him, in a way, and yet it didn't. Not after what he had seen in Fíli's face in the common room.

“They argued that we did not all need to go, if the plan is merely for Bilbo to slip in and find the Arkenstone.”

“They have a point,” Dwalin commented quietly. “But I'm guessing Thorin didna' go for it?”

Balin met his gaze, his eyes deeply troubled. “It was not his refusal that troubled me, brother, but the manner of it. He insulted the lass, threatened the lads. _Nadadith_ , he as much as said that he would disinherit them if they were not at his side when he entered Erebor.”

The warrior's brow furrowed in angry confusion. “But I thought he liked the lass? You said-”

“I know what I said,” the councilor snapped in irritation, waving a dismissive hand. “And it was what _he_ said, but that was yesterday. Today...something is changing, brother. He was angry, then unsure, then cold. He speaks of the Stone, rather than the Mountain.”

Dwalin nodded, his thoughts racing furiously. “He asked Óin for feverfew,” he offered quietly.

“So his head is still bothering him....” Balin trailed off, look of worried contemplation on his face. Dwalin stared at him.

“What is it, brother?” he finally asked. “You look as though you have remembered something.”

“Headaches...phantom music...there is something familiar about those complaints,” the older Dwarrow murmured thoughtfully. “Something I overheard, a conversation between our father and his brother. But I cannot remember more than that.”

The bald warrior reached out to clasp his brother's shoulder. “Then you will think on it, brother, and we shall keep watchful eyes on our king,” he replied gently.

 

* * *

 

Viska was surprised, but pleased, when Fíli and Kíli decided to join her and Trisk on their daily expedition into Laketown. The knowledge that the Company would be leaving for the Lonely Mountain with the next sunrise weighed heavily on the Dwarrowmaid's heart, and she had feared that preparations would keep them too busy for her to spend a few final hours with her two dear friends. She knew even before they left the house, however, that something was wrong. She had heard the rumble of Thorin's anger, and had caught Kíli's tense posture when she and Trisk had first entered the main room. The fact that Dwalin had stepped in to make it easier for the heirs to escape the confines of the house told her that he, too, had sensed the wild energy in the princes and judged it best to get them out of their uncle's way for the moment. Trisk also seemed to have caught a hint of the mood, judging from the sidelong glances he was casting at their companions, but he was the more patient of her father's children, and he waited until he had led them down a dead end walkway to a quiet area that they had discovered the previous day. There he took up a deceptively relaxed position leaning against a wall, hazel eyes flicking between the two young Dwarves.

“So, what exactly happened back there?” he asked casually.

Kíli sighed and threw himself down on a large shipping crate with a groan. “We asked if we could stay behind.”

“In Laketown? Tomorrow?” Viska demanded incredulously, eyes wide. “Why?”

“Why not?” Fíli countered with a shrug. “So far as I know, the plan is for Bilbo to slip in and get the Arkenstone, then everyone is to come back here to wait for Dáin. Why would that require all of us?”

The lass stared at him in consternation, her thoughts whirling. “But you are his heirs! Erebor is your home! You should be at his side! What were you thinking?”

She started as a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, gripping tightly, and turned to meet Trisk's gentle eyes.

“He was thinking of you, _namadith_ , and not wanting to leave you behind.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then turned to stare at the golden-haired prince. Fíli met her gaze steadily and her shoulders sagged as the anger crumbled away.

“I take it Thorin is not in favor of that plan?” Trisk continued, looking at the princes. Kíli snorted and Fíli sighed and shook his head.

“It was more than that. He was angry – angrier than he should have been. There is something...different...about him, something wrong.”

“He threatened to disinherit us,” Kíli mumbled, his eyes wide with disbelief. Viska's brows rose incredulously.

“Surely you imagined it!”

“No, he's right,” Fíli replied, his eyes dark with the memory. “Thorin said that we would enter Erebor at his side, or not at all.”

“ _A_ _md_ _â_ _r_ _u_ _Mahalul_....”

Kíli sighed explosively and got to his feet. “It's the Mountain.”

“What do you mean?” his brother asked quietly. The younger prince's dark eyes flashed with frustration.

“Thorin's mood has grown darker, the closer we have gotten to the Mountain. That is what I fear, _nadad_. We grew up on Uncle's tales of the Mountain, Fíli, but we also grew up with _Amad_ and Balin's tales of Thrór's madness. Tales that became more frequent as the quest grew in Thorin's mind. Did you think that happenstance?”

Fíli stared at him intently for a long moment before he shook his head and threw an arm around the younger lad's shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug.

“No,” he replied gently, mussing the archer's hair until he yelped and tried to pull away. “But I might not believe that my little brother is quite as thoughtless as he appears any longer.”

Kíli pried himself free, an oddly solemn expression on his face as he looked at his brother and shook his head. “You never thought that, Fi. You are one of the few.”

The implications of the conversation were making Viska's stomach churn with fear. She looked from one prince to the other. “Do you think Thorin will be corrupted by the dragon sickness?” she demanded. Brown eyes met blue in serious thought, and after a long moment, Fíli shook his head firmly.

“No. He is strong, and he is honorable. If any of Durin's line can resist it, it will be Thorin Oakenshield.”

 

* * *

 

The market of Laketown was more crowded than Kíli was expecting, though it was probably more a matter of limited space than excessive numbers of Men. Several vendors greeted them with smiles and small talk, having met and spoken with Trisk and 'Visk' during their previous visits. They were perfectly willing to extend that familiarity to the two new faces with only the briefest introduction and the young prince soon found himself answering hesitant questions about the craftsmanship of his gear.

“Mister Tris! Mister Visk!”

The raven-haired prince turned to see a curly-haired girl child weaving her way toward the small group of Dwarves, her eyes dancing with glee. He blinked in surprise as she came to a halt in front of the burly silversmith with a broad smile and made a clumsy curtsy that had Trisk chuckling and offering a small bow in return. The princes exchanged a bemused look and glanced at the siblings.

“Care to introduce us to your charming young friend?” Kíli asked with a small smile. The girl's eyes flickered to his face and she looked disappointed.

“You're not Mister Bifur,” she accused with a little pout. The younger prince gaped and looked to his friends for help. Trisk laughed, shaking his head.

“Bifur is busy today, so two of our other companions came with us instead,” he explained. “My friends, may I present Miss Tilda of Esgaroth. And Miss Sigrid,” he added as an older girl joined them. Kíli grinned and glanced at his brother. Fíli rolled his eyes, but nodded and smiled at the girls.

“Fíli...”

“...and Kíli...”

“...at your service!”

Tilda laughed brightly as they rose from their synchronized bow, and even Sigrid gave a nervous chuckle.

“Tilda is fascinated with Mister Bifur,” the older girl explained apologetically. “She has been talking about him for two days.”

“He's a toymaker. He made my squirrel,” Tilda informed them eagerly, showing the little toy off. “He called me _zars_... _zarsmun_...um....”

“ _Z_ _arsmuzmnat_ _ith_ ,” Trisk supplied. Tilda nodded.

“It means 'little squirrel.' And he's nice, even though he looks kind of scary.”

“Yes, he is a very kind soul,” Fíli agreed gravely. “And I am fairly certain that most of the toys that Kíli and I had as Dwarflings were made by Bifur. Our favorites were, I know.”

Kíli nodded, a mischievous smile on his face. “Like the little articulated horse that _Amad_ took away because we wouldn't stop fighting over it?”

“Precisely. And that was mine, by the way.”

The archer frowned at him. “I distinctly remember Bifur giving it to me, big brother.”

Fíli shrugged and shook his head. “Well, your memory never was that impressive, little brother.”

“You wound me!” the younger lad protested, widening his eyes and clutching his chest dramatically. “Can you believe such callous words, Miss Tilda? And from my own beloved elder brother?”

Sigrid and Tilda were giggling madly as Viska chuckled behind her scarf and Trisk snorted a laugh. Fíli groaned, burying his face in his hands. They didn't notice the commotion that was a contingent of the Master's guard coming through the market until the Men were practically on top of them, shoving people out of the way indiscriminately.

“Here, you, out of the way! The Master's coming through!”

The guards' rude shoves had little effect on the Dwarves, but Tilda was much lighter and Viska lunged frantically as she toppled from the walkway toward the surface of the frigid lake. The child gave a short shriek, hands flailing as she splashed into the water.

“Tilda!”

Sigrid shrieked her sister's name, trying to lurch past Trisk to the water, but the silversmith held her back, having already seen the golden-haired prince in motion. Kíli yelped at the sound of another, larger splash.

“Fíli!”

The elder brother was already in the lake, pulling the frightened child to him and treading water as he coaxed her into putting her arms around his neck. Once she was secure, he swam quickly to the edge of the walkway and handed the shivering girl up to Viska, then accepted assistance from his brother and Trisk to haul himself out of the lake. Fíli shrugged out of his coat, accepting Trisk's with a grateful nod. The archer stripped off his own to wrap around the child and Sigrid scooped her up.

“You'll need to get her home, lass,” Trisk told her. Sigrid nodded, then glanced at the soaked Dwarf prince.

“Please, all of you come with me. Our house is closer than where you are staying.”

The four Dwarrow glanced at one another for only a moment before Kíli nodded.

“Lead on.”

They hurried along after the anxious girl, her longer legs making her swift even on the uneven wooden walkway. Luckily it was not far – only around the corner and up a flight of stairs to the door of a small, neat home. Sigrid shouldered the door open, calling for her father, only to be met by a familiar, dark-haired Man. The Dwarves froze, unsure what to do, as the grim bargeman stared at his daughter in concern.

“Sigrid? What-?” His gaze fell on the younger girl, shivering in Kíli's worn blue coat, and he strode forward to scoop her up. “Tilda! What happened? Bain, grab a blanket for your sister!”

“And one for the Dwarf, please, Da,” Sigrid interjected, turning to usher in her hesitant guests. “He rescued Til. The Master's guards knocked her into the lake – she didn't move out of the way fast enough.”

“To be fair, I'm not sure that it was deliberate,” Trisk murmured as the tall, curly-haired boy that they had seen the first day hurried into the room, blankets in hand. Sigrid grabbed one and bundled Tilda into it. Kíli held the other as his brother skinned out of Trisk's coat before accepting it gratefully. The girl's father sighed, a hint of anger in his face.

“It never is.” He turned to offer a small bow to Fíli. “Thank you, Master Dwarf, for helping my little one.”

Fíli nodded back graciously, unable to manage the usual hand-on-heart bow in current circumstances. “You are most welcome, Master Bard.”

A tiny smile quirked the corner of the Man's mouth.

“Ah, you recognize me, then.”

The golden prince arched an eyebrow. “Well, you did make an impression.”

Bard nodded, a slightly worried look on his face. “It was not meant personally.”

Fíli smiled. “I understand. Please, excuse my rudeness. I am Fíli, this is my brother, Kíli, and these are my friends, Trisk and Visk.”

Bard smiled and offered another small bow. “The brothers that my girls have been chattering about for the past two days. It is nice to finally meet you.” He turned, motioning them toward the fireplace. “Please, all of you, come get warm.”

“I'll make some tea,” Sigrid offered quickly. “Bain, fetch yesterday's bread, please.”

Her brother nodded, taking his wide-eyed gaze off of the Dwarves for the first time since he had entered the room, and hurried to the kitchen area to get the remains of a loaf of bread and a knife as Sigrid hung a kettle of water on the fire. The Dwarves gathered at the fireplace, carefully moving Tilda to the warmest spot. Bard took a seat in a worn chair and pulled the girl into his lap, rubbing her arms briskly and snuggling her into his shoulder. His dark eyes studied his guests closely and Kíli felt like one of the bugs that Ori would stare at for hours as he sketched every detail. Finally, he raised a challenging eyebrow and met the bargeman's gaze. Bard smiled faintly.

“You look a lot like Thorin, son of Thráin,” he commented quietly. “Enough to be his son, perhaps?” He turned toward Fíli, cocking his head curiously. “And you said you are brothers?”

Fíli met his gaze, then glanced at Kíli. The archer shrugged, leaving the decision to his elder brother, and the swordsman sighed.

“Not his sons, but his sister-sons,” the fair-haired Dwarrow corrected. “Our mother is Thorin's younger sister, Dís. He has no sons.”

“So, sons or sister-sons, you are his heirs?”  
  
“We are.”

The Man stared at him in silence, long fingers carding through Tilda's drying hair as the girl blinked sleepily. “You agree with his quest, or you would not be here,” he stated finally. “Is the gold so important to you?”

Kíli stirred restlessly, but remained quiet when his brother shot him a quelling look. Trisk was watching the bargeman closely, while Viska silently helped Sigrid with the tea. Fíli met Bard's gaze with eyes the blue of a forge fire.

“Reclaiming our people's _azh_ _â_ _r_ , our home, is so important to us. Our folk have been in Exile for over a hundred years, while a dragon slept in the halls of our fathers. The same dragon that slew their kith and kin.”

“He slew many in Dale, as well,” the Man countered. “And if he wakes, it is not your folk who will suffer his wrath.”

Kíli flinched, but his brother did not.

“You think Smaug will sleep forever?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious. “That he will remain forever content with what he has within the Mountain?”

“He has not been seen for sixty years,” Bard replied, sounding slightly less sure of himself. The elder prince nodded.

“Thorin says the same. He even says that the beast might be dead. But the stories say that dragons live practically forever, unless they are killed. If the dragon does wake, would you rather it happened when the folk of Esgaroth are the only ones to stand against him?”

Bard did not answer for a long moment, his dark eyes studying each of the Dwarves in turn.

“You really think you can kill him?” he asked finally. “Your small band?”

Kíli glanced at his brother, and saw a warning to silence in Fíli's eyes. The Crown Prince shrugged slightly.

“Thorin has a plan,” he replied carefully. “If it is successful, the people of Laketown should have plenty of warning to get to safety. If it is not, we will do whatever we can to protect your people.”

Bard searched his face before finally nodding. “I will trust in your intentions,” he said softly. “I believe that you will do what you can for my people. I still do not approve of what your folk seek to do, but I understand your motivations for it.”

Bilbo staggered out into the common room of the house, yawning hugely and stretching the kinks out of his arms as he looked around. Ori glanced up from his drawing, his face brightening at the sight of the Hobbit.

“Feeling better, Bilbo?” he asked quietly, setting his sketchpad to the side as he got to his feet and headed for the kitchen area. “Óin said you should wake up soon, and that you would be hungry as a bear when you did.” He pulled a large cloth-covered tray from the counter and brought it out with a smile. “We saved you something to eat.”

Bilbo nodded appreciatively at the little scribe and took the tray, his stomach growling ferociously as the tempting smells coming from beneath the cloth. Taking a seat at the table, he uncovered a veritable feast (compared to recent meals) and tucked in, asking questions in between bites.

“Where are the others?”

“Getting the last of the supplies together,” Ori replied, returning to his pile of gear and beginning to draw once more, studying the picture critically. “Foodstuff, weapons. I think Balin and Thorin are speaking with the Master. And the princes went out with Trisk and Viska to explore Laketown. Nori's out on the porch. No one trusts him to go into town, and Dori didn't want to leave me here alone while you were asleep, so...” he shrugged, rolling his eyes at his eldest brother's overprotective nature. Bilbo smiled.

“Well, I'm very sorry that you had to stay here and babysit me,” he apologized. Ori laughed.

“Oh, no...I'd much rather be here sketching or writing,” he assured the Hobbit. “I've caught up my journal, and I want to finish this picture before we leave, so I can give it to Viska.” He looked suddenly thoughtful, even a bit bashful, before he held up his latest piece of art. Bilbo blinked. He had known Ori was talented with his sketches of plants and animals that they had encountered on the journey, and he had even drawn quick pictures of some of their companions, and those they had met on the way (the way he had captured the bottomless compassion of Beorn's eyes had stunned the Halfling), but this was a masterpiece, so much so that Bilbo felt he was intruding on a private moment simply by looking at the portrait.

Fíli stood beneath a tree, gazing at the Dwarrowlass before him with utter adoration in his eyes, his hands resting lightly on her waist. Viska's eyes were on his face, a smile teasing her lips as she tapped one finger against a bead on his mustache braid. The Hobbit had never seen either of the young Dwarves so unguarded, and he blinked against the sudden sting of tears in his eyes.

“That's wonderful, Ori,” he assured his young friend, swallowing hard. Ori's eyes brightened and he glanced at the picture with a hint of pride.

“D'you think she'll like it?” he asked anxiously. “I want to give it to her before we leave, since she and Trisk will be staying in Laketown until we return.”

“Oh, I think I can safely say that she will love it,” Bilbo stated with conviction. “You have outdone yourself, my friend.”

 

* * *

 

The sun was sinking toward the West as the four young Dwarrow made their way through the wooden maze of Laketown. Trisk and Kíli led the way, chatting quietly. Fíli and Viska hung back slightly, the golden-haired prince carrying his still-damp coat over one shoulder and stealing occasional peeks at his shorter companion as they walked. Even with her hood pulled up and the scarf concealing her face, she fascinated him. He wanted to commit every gesture to memory, learn every expression that crossed her face. She glanced at him a couple of times, then shook her head.

“If you have a something to say, do so,” she commented finally, rolling her eyes. “It's disconcerting to be stared at so fiercely.”

“I didn't realize that I was staring fiercely,” he replied with a small laugh. “I thought I was just enjoying the view.” He gave a startled grunt as a determined fist buried itself under his ribs and Trisk snorted a laugh as he glanced back at them.

“She bites and kicks, too,” the silversmith warned with a half-smile. “Fought dirty since we were small.”

The emerald eyes glinted dangerously and Fíli could imagine the deceptively sweet smile hidden beneath the scarf. “You were bigger,” she countered with a shrug.

“So you were meaner,” her brother agreed. “I just thought Fíli deserved a warning, _namadith_.”

“Mind your own business, beloved brother,” she murmured. Kíli glanced at her face beneath the hood, then his brother's, before turning to Trisk.

“Maybe we should give them a bit of time?” he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the house. Trisk hesitated for a moment, then nodded. He gave Fíli one last level look before striding off after the archer, leaving the fair-haired prince and the quiet Dwarrowlass alone on the walkway. Fíli blinked, staring after their departing brothers, then glanced at his companion.

“What was that?” Viska asked, tugging her scarf down a little to reveal a rather startled expression. He shrugged.

“I guess they thought we needed some time to talk?” he offered, starting after them at a slower pace. She fell in next to him, their shoulders touching as they walked.

“What would you like to talk about?” she asked finally, a small laugh in her voice. Fíli thought for a long moment.

“Actually, there is something that I've wondered since Rivendell. Nothing urgent, obviously, just a...curiosity.”

“Ask, then.”

“Your name.”

She turned to look at him, one brow raised quizzically. “You know my name.”

“Most parents in Ered Luin don't follow the rhyming pattern for girls' names,” he clarified.

“Ah.” She walked in silence for a minute before she replied. “They don't in Emyn Uial, either,” she admitted. “It was kind of an accident.”

“An accident?”

She gave him a sad smile. “ _Amad_ and _Adad_ never expected to have a daughter, so they did not pick a name for one. They had chosen Viskel to go along with Triskel. And suddenly, Da was being told that he had a wee lass, and what would he like to name her? And Ma was gone, so there was no one to talk to about it. So he just adjusted the name he already had to the situation.”

Fíli watched the emotions play across her face before he spoke again.

“What was he like? Your Da?”

Her smile brightened, but her eyes filled with tears. “Kind,” she answered promptly. “Sad, proud, but always kind. Fierce in defense of his people, and so determined to raise us to be strong.”

“He succeeded.”

She nodded gratefully, then gave him a considering look. “He would have liked you, I think,” she decided. “Though he would have glared most ferociously, so you would not know it. He always told me that no Dwarrow would ever be good enough for his _nâtha_ , but that he would not stand against any that I chose, so long as they were willing to stand up to him at his most protective.”

The prince smiled as he stepped up onto the low porch that ran along the front of the house where the Dwarves were staying. Light glowed in the windows, and they could hear the merry conversation of the Company inside, but he merely draped his coat on the railing and stepped into a dark corner to take a seat on a low bench. She joined him, leaning comfortably into his shoulder as wrapped a warm arm around her. Fíli sat quietly for several long minutes, simply enjoying her presence, lost in the soft sounds of her breathing. When he finally spoke, he broke the silence reluctantly.

“Durin's day is two days from tomorrow.”

Her breath hitched slightly, but her voice was steady when she replied. “Yes.”

“We leave in the morning, and Thorin will not change his mind.”

“No.”

He hissed in frustration, tightening his grip on her shoulder and burying his face in the side of her hood. “Mahal, I hate this!” His words came out muffled with the fabric and his own emotions. “You have every right to be there, you and Trisk!”

She took his free hand and pulled it up to her face, planting a soft kiss on his palm. “Fíli, please, leave it alone,” she murmured, her voice a low thrum. “Thorin has his reasons, and I understand them, even if it I hate being left behind. We are not being sent away. We will be safer than you, should the dragon wake.”

He groaned softly, raising his head. “Hopefully, it won't come to that. If Bilbo can get in, get the Arkenstone, and get out, Thorin will be able to send for Dáin.”

She turned to study him, eyes sparking in the firelight that shone through the windows.

“Will an army, even one from the Iron Hills, stand a chance against Smaug?” she asked seriously. He opened his mouth to reassure her, but the words would not come. He could never lie to her. Instead, he opted for hope.  
  
“It won't be just the Iron Hills. With the blood of Durin, our Eldest line, and the Arkenstone in hand, Thorin can call on all seven clans. They swore to follow he who holds that stone. And remember, Erebor of old was unprepared for Smaug's attack. They had no warning.”

She nodded, her eyes distant with thought. “Still, I am glad that Thorin plans to bring the Company back, rather than linger at the Mountain. The longer you are there, the more chance of waking that beast before the armies arrive.”

He nodded absently, his concerns more immediate for the moment, and turned her face to hers so he could meet her eyes. He knew his voice was low and rough with worry, and he wondered again if he could truly do this, truly leave for Erebor with the sunrise, leaving her behind.

“Viska.... _amrâlimê_...will you do me one favor? I do not know if Thorin ever spoke to the Master for you, but I would not trust him, regardless. I would see you safe. I know you will be here, in town, but still...this is the world of Men, and Men do not think highly of Dwarves, no matter how their Master speechifies and promises. Of all the Men that we have met here, the only one I trust is Bard. At least he is open with his objections.”

“And you saved his daughter,” she pointed out with a small smile. He barked a sarcastic laugh.

“I wouldn't trust the Master if I'd saved _him_ , but Bard seems honorable. If he would have you, would you and Trisk stay with him?”

She looked at him curiously, then finally nodded. “ _Kun_ ,” she replied with a small smile. “We will ask. We can help out, or Trisk still has some money.”

He relaxed slightly, letting out a relieved sigh. “I will feel much better with you there.”

She smiled at him, an odd glint in her eye and a mischievous set to her lips. “You do know that I am capable of looking out for myself?” she commented quietly. “And that Trisk has been my big brother for seventy-nine years?”

Fíli coughed. “I'm not trying to be your big brother-” he protested, fumbling for words to explain.

“Thank Mahal, because I don't really look at you like a brother.”

“I am being someone who cares about you a great deal....”he trailed off, so intent on his explanation that he had almost missed her quiet confession. He stared at her, watching a flush creep up over her cheeks before he spoke again. “...and I think that is the most forward thing that a lass has ever said to me. And I love that you are blushing like fire, but you said it anyway.” He pulled her closer, resting his chin on her head. “My brave, impetuous lass.”

She snorted and pulled away, giving him a playful glare. “You like that I am embarrassed?”  
  
He smiled, refusing to be baited, determined to make his meaning clear. “I like that you were embarrassed, but still spoke your mind,” he told her firmly. “And I love your courage, your loyalty, your determination to help others.” He placed a gently hand under her chin and tilted her face up so he could gaze into it, his chest tight with emotion. “I'm fascinated by the depths of those green eyes, and the red highlights in your chestnut hair, and that sweet, wistful smile that lights up your face.”

“Very sweet words, my prince,” she whispered, her eyes gentle as one hand came up to tug on a mustache braid. He smiled and pressed his forehead to hers.

“And I mean every one of them, _tabl_ _û_ _n_ _a_ ,” he promised.

He fully intended to kiss her. Only the briefest, sweetest of kisses, hopefully ending better than the one in Beorn's orchard, but his brother's timing was impeccable as ever. Just as he closed his eyes, the door to the house opened, spilling light across the porch, and Kíli's bright voice preceded the archer's arrival.

“Fi, Viska, are you hungry? Bombur's going to-oh! Sorry!”

Fíli's eyes flew open as Viska scooted away abruptly and he turned to see his brother frantically backpedaling, only to plow into Bofur as the miner tried to follow him out the door. Kíli tripped, Bofur reached out to steady him, and a soft thump followed by a yip of pain announced that Viska had accidentally scooted right off the end of the bench. The swordsman lurched to his feet, fighting to bury his amusement until he had made sure she wasn't hurt, but she was already laughing herself, her face buried in her arms. Kíli was bright red with embarrassment, Bofur chortling as he pushed by the young prince and bent to offer the lass a hand up. She accepted, but she was laughing so hard that she lost her grip and ended up right back on the wooden boards. Fíli slumped next to her, while Kíli pulled the door closed before the noise could draw anyone else, his blush fading as he stared at his brother and the lass.

“I have the worst timing in the world,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Or the best,” Bofur countered, a wide grin on his merry face. “Back in Ered Luin, this'd be blackmail material for months.”

“Oi!” Fíli protested, glaring at the miner. “No giving my brother ideas, Bof! He has plenty enough of his own!”

Viska had calmed and was watching their companion with an unreadable look on her face.

“You already knew, didn't you Bofur?” she asked quietly. “How long?”

Fíli gave her a startled glance. “How?”  
Bofur offered her a hand once more, and this time succeeded in pulling her to her feet, then did the same for the golden-haired prince. “Well, 'how' is that I'm not as dim as I look,” he replied with a grin. “Common mistake, that. 'How long' is since the pointy-eared princeling showed us what was in front of our own eyes for several blind months. Hard to miss the way the lad watches ya since, and you've worn your heart on yer face, lass, for any that have the eyes to see it.” He wrapped an arm around each young Dwarf's shoulders and gave them a quick hug, his dark eyes sparkling with humor. “Now, as young Kíli was about to tell ya, m'brother is going to eat your shares of dinner if ya don't get to the table. Oh, and Dwalin asked me to tell ya that Thorin's mood isn't quite so dark, so it's safe to come in.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Amdâru Mahalul – Mahal's mercy  
> nâtha – daughter  
> amrâlimê – my love (literally, love of mine)  
> kun – yes  
> tablûna – apple lady


	22. My Heart Continues to Beat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Comments always appreciated! Please let me know what you think!

Tauriel waited at the edge of the trees in the lightening darkness, listening to the quiet conversation behind her. Legolas had been sending messages back to the king by way of various scouting parties since he had sent the first group back with word of his delay three days before. This group, however, had orders from Thranduil to return with his son and the errant Captain of the Guard, and Legolas was talking in low tones with their leader. The flame-haired she-Elf listened, but did not speak. She had run out of arguments as the days passed without the Dwarves emerging from Laketown, or the Orcs moving from their camp. She would not return – not yet, not when the warning in her heart was still so strong – but she would not hinder her friend if he chose to obey his father's summons, either. The rest of Cevendir's patrol group was doing much the same, listening without listening, watching the town, or the distant Orcs, or the still horizon, hands on weapons as they extended their senses warily. Few of the Wood Elves spent much time outside of the bounds of Mirkwood, Thranduil's isolationist preferences having spread among his people, and they were ill at ease on the lake shore.

A blare of horns cut off the conversation behind her, and Tauriel swiveled to stare out across the Long Lake. Laketown. Something was happening, She spared a glance at Legolas as the golden-haired prince joined her, then her gaze darted to the Orc camp they had been watching. It was a hive of frantic activity and she arched a brow at her companion.

“Oakenshield's Company departs for the Mountain,” he agreed grimly.

“The Orcs will cut them off if we do nothing,” she warned, watching his eyes. After six hundred years, she could read his intentions there as easily as she might read the body language of a Man. He was hesitating, so she made one last play. “The Men of Laketown are considered our allies,” she pointed out carefully. “If they are helping the Dwarves, some of their folk might be caught in the attack.”

“That is their own concern, if they are aiding our enemies,” Cevendir pointed out sharply, joining them. Legolas turned a withering gaze on the young Silvan Elf and the guard stepped back slightly under its intensity.

“The treaties between our peoples do not put conditions on our aid,” the prince replied with a hint of anger. “Nor are the Dwarves of Erebor our enemies. We were allies once, and my father has expressed irritation with them, but has not declared us at war. The Orcs, however, are the enemies of all, and poor allies or friends we would be if we stood by and let them murder at will.”

Tauriel let a hint of a smile flare before controlling her expression once more. She had never gotten along well with Cevendir, for he was one who followed orders blindly, without thought, and did not deviate even when the situation changed. His rank was equal with hers, so he had no obligation to follow her orders, but Legolas had invoked Thranduil as his father, which meant he was speaking as Crown Prince, and that put _him_ in charge. The glimmer of shock on Cevendir's expression told her that the other Captain had worked out that much for himself, and he stared at the fair-haired Elf for a moment before hastily regaining control of his features and offering a bow.

“Your orders, my prince?” he asked hesitantly. “Would you have us attack the Orcs?”

“I hardly think that necessary,” the prince replied. “Tauriel and I know the patrol schedules as well as you, Cevendir. There should be at least two patrols within hearing of your horn now. We few might not be enough to make the filth reconsider, but they won't know how many will respond to your summons. Especially if you encourage our reinforcements to make haste rather than stealth.”

Understanding flickered in the dark eyes and the patrol leader nodded quickly, unfastening the horn that hung at his belt and raising it to his lips. The notes rang out clear and Tauriel picked out the sequence requesting aid, followed by an identification of Orcs, and then the staccato finale that urged those who heard to approach openly and at speed. Legolas nodded with satisfaction as Cevendir returned the horn to his belt. The rest of the patrol had already gathered with them, weapons drawn and eyes on the Orc camp, where activity had come to a standstill. The twisted creatures were staring toward the Elves and several of them seemed to be arguing with one another.

The stand-off lasted only the length of time that it took the first patrol to arrive, crashing deliberately through the undergrowth and sounding like twice their number. A chestnut-haired she-Elf named Suilrien led this group, and she joined the other leaders quickly, eyes sparking with anger at the sight of the Orcs. The Elves now outnumbered their foe by a significant number, and the argument in the camp had gotten more heated. One or two Orcs had already fled, and more looked similarly inclined – and their nerve broke when the sound of the third patrol's approach drifted through the forest. Snarling and casting angry looks at both the Elves and the distant town of Men, the Orcs retreated. Legolas nodded with satisfaction and glanced at Tauriel.

“That should give them the time they need,” he commented quietly. “And no blood spilled. Cevendir, Suilrien, Harndaer, you have my thanks for your cooperation and quick arrivals,” he added, inclining his head politely to the leaders of the patrols. “You may return to your patrols. Keep an eye out for the Orcs, but only engage if you must. Give the king your report when you return to his halls.”

Suilrien and Harndaer nodded quickly and turned to their groups, ordering them back into Mirkwood with quiet voices. Cevendir hesitated, looking from Legolas to Tauriel and back again.

“Will you return with us, my prince?” he asked finally. “The king's order-”

Legolas shook his head, raising a hand to cut him off. “Not just yet, Captain. Tauriel and I will remain a bit longer, to make certain that the Orcs do not attack Laketown when they realize that the Dwarves have escaped their grasp. Then we will return, and I will give a full report to the king. For now, let him know that I am abiding by the terms of the treaties between Elves and Men and will return when the threat to our allies has passed.”

The Silvan Elf hesitated a moment longer, then nodded and summoned his patrol with a sharp order. They melted back into the foliage of Mirkwood. Tauriel did not speak until they were gone.

“Thank you,” she murmured, smiling slightly at her old friend. Legolas responded with a similar hint of a smile and shook his head.

“One of these days, I will learn to ignore your arguments, _mellon-nin_ ,” he replied ruefully. “My father will not be pleased.”

“Losing trade with the Men of Laketown because it was destroyed by Orcs would not please him, either,” she pointed out. He sighed and nodded.

“No, it would not,” he agreed. Then he fixed her with a keen blue gaze. “I meant what I told Cevendir,” he warned. “We will stay until it appears that Esgaroth is out of danger, then we return to the Woodland Realm. We are not here to help Thorin Oakenshield reclaim Erebor.”

 

* * *

 

Triskel stood on the dock and watched the boat move out across the Long Lake. He had a hand clamped on Viska's arm and could feel the tension thrumming through her muscles until she fairly vibrated. On the boat, he could see Kíli restraining his brother in much the same way, Fíli's fists clenching helplessly as the bargemen pushed them farther out. Thorin did not seem to have noticed his nephews' preoccupation with the Dwarves he had left behind, but Balin kept a cautious eye on them. Ori had given Viska a rolled, tied parchment that Trisk now held, the little scribe blushing fiercely as he bid them farewell. Bombur had given them several sympathetic glances, and Bofur had stopped to clap Trisk on the back and give Viska a one-armed hug before leaving, but now most of the Company had turned their minds toward Erebor and the dragon.

Finally, the boat was far enough away that Trisk could no longer make out individuals, save the golden-haired figure at the closest edge, and he glanced at his sister. She was pale, and he could read the concern in her eyes as she tucked something into her pocket, but their father's strength shone in her face and she met his look with a small smile and a nod as she pulled the scarf back across her face. Trisk stared down at her for a long moment, then sighed and pressed his forehead against hers.

“Well, we've made a right mess of things, haven't we, _namad_? I'm not sure if _Adad_ would laugh himself sick, or box our ears.”

She chuckled and gave him an affectionate headbutt. “Probably both,” she admitted wryly. Her eyes flickered to his hand and narrowed curiously. “What was it that Ori gave me?” she asked, reaching for it. He shrugged and handed it to her.

“I haven't looked.”

Untying the cord that held it closed, the Dwarrowlass unrolled the parchment carefully, a smile spreading across her face, even as tears glinted in her eyes. Trisk could not blame her. He had known Ori was talented with those inks of his, but the young scribe had captured Viska with rare skill, a gentle smile at odds with the mischief in her eyes. The look of reverence on the golden prince's face would have convinced the young silversmith even if he had never seen for himself the respect and affection with which Fíli treated her. He smiled and tapped the tree in the background of the portrait, arching a brow at his sister.

“That's Beorn's orchard,” he noted quietly. “Only talking, were you?”

A hint of color swept through her cheeks and she glanced away, rolling the parchment carefully before retying the cord.

“Nothing untoward,” she retorted with a shrug. “Just...talking...mostly.”

He laughed and slung an arm around her shoulders, hugging her tightly.

“They will return safely, sister,” he murmured. “We are almost home.”

She nodded and hugged him back, then glanced up at him with worried green eyes.

“Should I have spoken?” she whispered. “Should I have asked?”  
  
Trisk sighed and stepped away, starting down the wooden walkway that would take them back to the main market of Laketown. They had spent several minutes in iglishmêk conversation the night before on this very topic, carefully secluded from curious eyes.

“You know what I think,” he replied quietly as she fell in beside him. “I urged you to speak up last night.”

She nodded, her shoulders slumping, and he clamped a hand on her arm before he continued.

“ _However_ , I understood your thinking. His loyalties were already divided, his heart torn, and you did not want to strain him further.” He sighed again and glanced at her, remembering their farewell on the Laketown dock. “I just think that you failed to realize how torn he was already, _namadith_ ,” he finally told her. “His own heart's doing, not yours.”

She met his eyes, finally showing a hint of the fear that he knew was filling her soul. “And so he goes to face a dragon – distracted.”

“Thorin believes Smaug is dead.”

“Thorin _hopes_ Smaug is dead,” she retorted bitterly. “Thorin wants to believe he can just walk in, collect the Arkenstone, and rally the Dwarves to his banner. Bilbo will do his best, I'm sure, but even Gandalf said his task would be dangerous.”

“Apparently not dangerous enough for him to stay with us until journey's end,” Trisk grumbled. He quieted when she fixed him with a glare.

“Do not be a fool, _nadad_. Gandalf wants Smaug dead, but even Kíli has noted something else weighing on the wizard's mind. Something made him anxious when he left us in Mirkwood. And if Tharkûn is concerned, it can be no small thing.”

“Mister Tris?”

The quiet question caught Trisk's attention and he turned to find Tilda, the girl's gray eyes confused and concerned as she stared at the two Dwarves.

“Why are you still here? We thought you left for the Mountain with the others.”

“Tilda, who are you – oh, Master Trisk, Visk, hello!” Bain, Bard's son, had just caught up to his sister, looking surprised to see them. “You didn't go to the Mountain?”  
Trisk sighed. He really didn't want to share the awkward explanation of Dwarven protectiveness with a half-grown Man, but he also didn't want to alienate the few friends they had in Laketown. Viska tapped his arm and signed a brief prompt. His face cleared and he nodded at her briefly.

“Actually, Bain, we were just planning on coming to speak to your father. Do you know if he's at home?”

The boy nodded. “Should be. He said he was getting a late start today. Is everything alright?”

“Well enough, we would just like to speak to Bard, if we could.”

Bain turned to smile at his sister. “What do you think, Til? Shall we take these ruffians back to Da?”

Tilda giggled and glanced at the two Dwarves. “Yes! I like them, and Da does too.”

“All right then. But if he's angry, I'll just tell him it's your fault,” Bain warned playfully.

“C'mon, Mister Tris! Mister Visk!”

The little girl waved encouragingly and started weaving her way through the bustle of people on the walkway, peering back every few minutes to make sure they were following her. Trisk smiled and glanced up at Bain.

“Does she always have this much energy?”

Bain laughed. “That's our Til. She exhausts Da sometimes, but then he'll chuckle and tell her how much she reminds him of Mum.”

 

* * *

 

For Bilbo, the previous few days had passed in a foggy blur, thanks to Óin's medicines. He did not remember much between that first dinner with the Master and the previous afternoon, when he had spoken with Ori in the common room.

“I feel as though I have lost several days,” he muttered crossly, huddling into the oversized coat that Dori had altered to fit him a bit better. He sat on a low crate in the barge, between Bofur and Nori, staring toward the front. Thorin had not moved since they had left the dock, his gaze fixed on the Lonely Mountain, leaning forward slightly as though that would help them arrive faster. In truth, most of the Company seemed transfixed by the sight of their looming destination, so he was slightly surprised when Bofur answered him with a chuckle.  
  
“You have, but you didn't miss any excitement,” the miner assured him. “Mostly packin' and mendin', and Thorin gettin' grumpier by the day. Just hope he hasn't scared the lass off of courtin' young Fíli.”

The Hobbit blinked, wondering if he had heard correctly.

“Courting?”

Bofur tilted his head curiously. “Didn't you notice the way the youngsters acted?” he asked, looking surprised. “Or don't Hobbits court?”

Bilbo gaped at him and shook his head. “No – I mean, yes, of course Hobbits court, I just – wouldn't that be _his_ choice? To court, I mean?”  
  
“Ah.” Understanding dawned in the dark eyes and his friend shook his head with a smile. “Not among Dwarrow, my friend. At least, not among those descended from Durin's folk of Khazâd-dûm. I'm not sure when or why the tradition started, but it's as good as set in stone after all this time. The lass has the choosing, whether the lad's apprentice to a smith or heir to the throne.”

“I see. And Viska hasn't chosen? They seem quite close.”

“Aye, they are, but she hasn't made it official yet.”

“How do you know?”

Nori laughed. “The braids, Master Baggins,” he put in with a smile. “They mayn't tell the tales of our lives, like some Men seem to think, but they do have meaning. Once a lass and lad start courting, they'll each wear a braid to announce it to the world. No braid, so no official courtship.”

Bofur glanced toward the front of the barge. “Not that I blame her, with the way Thorin's moods have been,” the miner added in a low voice.

“Would that affect her feelings for Fíli?” Bilbo asked, surprised. Bofur shook his head vehemently.

“Of course not, but it might make her hesitate to do anything that might draw our king's attention,” he explained.

“He is focused on the Mountain,” Nori added. “Anything that distracts him is viewed with anger and suspicion.” The thief met Bilbo's disbelieving stare. “You've been ill, my friend, so you have missed some changes over the past few days. Even Balin and Dwalin walk carefully around Thorin lately, and the lads barely speak to him.”

“He seemed normal enough this morning,” Bilbo managed, shooting careful looks at their leader. Thorin's face was set, his eyes intent on the nearing bulk of the Mountain.

“That is because we are moving toward his goal, Master Burglar,” a new voice put in, making the Hobbit start with surprise. Balin sounded weary and sorrowful, and there were new lines around the Dwarf's eyes that spoke of worry and sleepless nights. Bilbo glanced from the councilor's exhausted face to Dwalin's stoic features, wondering what he had missed that would shake the brothers' solid belief in their king. Turning to peer over his shoulder, the Halfling caught sight of the princes standing as far from their uncle as they had been able to manage in the limited space on the barge. Fíli's face was expressionless, while Kíli's dark eyes shone with concern for his brother. Bilbo sighed and turned back around, pulling his coat tighter against the bite of the wind. Before them, the Lonely Mountain drew ever closer.

 

* * *

 

Bain and Trisk followed Tilda, chatting quietly. Viska followed a step behind, one hand holding the portrait that Ori had given her, while the other was clenched in her pocket. She shadowed her brother half by instinct, her eyes seeing the past rather than the present...

 

_The princes lag behind as the rest of the Company clambers into the barge that has been provided by the Master of Laketown, and Fíli pulls Viska aside for a few precious moments. She already holds a rolled piece of parchment that Ori handed to her, ducking his head bashfully and murmuring farewell. Now, the golden-haired prince is pressing the cool metal hilt of a dagger into her palm. The Dwarrowlass glances down, startled to see the royal sigil on the pommel-nut. He gives her a small, smug grin._

_“Managed to hide one,” he explains with a wink._

_“Fíli, you are the one about to be sneaking around a dragon-infested mountain,” she protests, trying to hand it back. He holds his hands up and shakes his head firmly._

_“I have a couple of blades that the Master's smith gave us. They aren't the best quality, but they will serve. I would rather you have this one.”_

_She wants to object further, but she can read the unspoken emotions in those blue eyes, so she simply nods and tucks the blade into her coat. He smiles, relief clear on his face, and hands something else to her, closing her hand around a delicate clasp. He leans in to press their foreheads together and she inhales deeply, taking a last bit of comfort in the smells of tobacco and cedar that are so essentially Fíli._

_“Strength, amrâlimê...endure just a bit longer, and we will not be separated again.”_

_(An older Dwarf would know that making such a vow is like throwing a challenge to Fate, but Fíli is young. He will learn.)_

_He takes a deep breath. “I know about the letter,” he whispers, eyes closed and hands tight on hers. “If you do have to use it, show this to my mother. She will understand. And tell her...tell her I am sorry that I broke my promise._

_And then they are out of time. Kíli is at his side, tugging urgently at his sleeve, dark eyes full of regret, and the brothers are stepping on to the boat. She steps forward impulsively, but Trisk catches her arm, holding her back gently. He relieves her of the rolled paper before she can crush it, but the bite of the edges of the clasp in her hand is almost comforting. She does not hear the Master's pompous speech of farewell and good luck, or Thorin's curt but polite response. Trisk's voice fills her ears with a low rumble, and she knows what she must do. Drawing herself up and lifting her chin, she meets Fíli's eyes as he turns back. All fear and doubt are buried in her heart, and she gives him a confident smile, her hands flashing in iglishmêk, the signs slightly altered to express certainty._

I will see you soon. We will await the armies of the Dwarves together.

_His answering smile is full of pride and gratitude, and he nods regally as he straightens his spine. Beside him, Kíli gives her a good approximation of his usual cheeky grin as the barge begins to move._

 

Their arrival at Bard's home brought the Dwarrowlass back to the present just as Trisk looked back at her with concern. Smiling slightly, she nodded to reassure him, following the others up the stairs.

 

_* * *_

 

Bard had not yet left when they arrived at the small house, but he did look surprised to see the two Dwarves following his children. At Trisk's request for a private word, he sent Tilda off to help her sister with the housework and sent Bain on the errands that he had been about to do. Then he led his two unexpected guests to a small bedroom and took a seat, fixing his gaze on them.

“You know that I do not approve of your leader's errand. What favor have you to ask of me?”

Trisk glanced at his sister. “First, Master Bard, we would be completely honest with you. There is a reason that we were left behind when the Company departed this morning.”

Viska reached up and tugged off her scarf, then pulled her hood back to reveal her shorn locks, exposing her healing scars and the soft downy fuzz where her sideburns were beginning to grow back. Bard looked a little confused and she smiled.

“Perhaps you cannot tell – I have heard the other races have trouble telling us apart – but I am a lass. My name is Viska, and I am Triskel's younger sister.” Her voice was low and rough still, but the tone was gentle. “I lost most of my hair in a fire some months ago, before Thorin's expedition set out, the same night our father died in a Goblin raid on our home. Trisk and I chose to join the Company, but we knew Thorin would not accept a lass. So I lied.”

“He found out.” Bard's quiet statement was not a question, but she nodded.

“In Mirkwood. He tried to leave us behind then, but Master Baggins interceded and brought us out.” She thought it best to leave out any hint that the king's own nephews had disagreed with his decision. “Thorin allowed us to tag along to Laketown, but-”

“He drew the line at allowing us to join them in entering Erebor,” Trisk finished for her. “He said we can return once the Mountain is his, for he was a comrade of our father long ago, and we have been of some assistance on the journey. For now, however, we find ourselves adrift in a town of Men, with few trustworthy faces. We would ask for shelter, just for a few days. If no word comes from our folk after ten days, we will depart and leave you in peace.”

Bard sat in silent contemplation, his dark eyes studying each of them intently.

“We can pay,” Viska spoke up after a moment. “And we're willing to help out with any chores or labor that you might have. I doubt our trades are in much demand here, but no Dwarf, lad or lass, is afraid of hard work.”

“And if your Thorin wakes the dragon?”  
  
Trisk raised an eyebrow, but met his gaze levelly. “That, we cannot stop. But I will say this – we will defend and protect your kin to the best of our ability. To the death, if necessary. I don't know what good we would be against a rampaging dragon, but we will help get your family out of here, and do whatever we can to ensure their safety.”

Finally, Bard nodded and stood. “A little money would be appreciated, but the help would be even more so. You do not seem as driven as your leader, and that may be a good thing. I will keep your secret, Mistress Viska, if that is your wish.”

Viska smiled. “I would prefer not to spread it among the town, but I have no objections to being able to be a lass within the walls of your home. It has been long since I could be myself, and longer still since I had female friends. Your daughters are delightful, and I would love to be able to talk freely with them.”

Bard's eyes crinkled in a weary smile. “I think they'd like that. Sigrid has friends in town, but not many. It will be good for her to have another sensible lass to talk to.”

Trisk laughed incredulously, ignoring his sister's glare. “Sensible? You did hear our story, did you not?”

Viska drew herself up and turned her back on her brother. “I'll just go and reintroduce myself to to the girls now, shall I?”

Trisk stared after her for a long moment as the door closed, lost in thought.

“You know, many Men see little of Dwarves, beyond the stubbornness and love of gold,” Bard commented finally. “Your Thorin certainly has those traits to spare.”

“Most of us do,” Trisk admitted wryly, watching the tall bargeman. “I'll not deny how much I long to set foot in Erebor, see the home of my fathers, the vast treasury of Thrór.”

“And yet you risked your place in the Company for your sister. And I watched your folk while they were here. Even in the greater whole of the Company, it was clear that there were stronger relationships among small groups. You and Viska; the brothers, Fíli and Kíli; the hefty Dwarf, the one with the ax in his head, and the one with the hat. Another family?”

“There are some family ties there,” Trisk replied cautiously, unwilling to discuss anyone's personal life with the Man. Bard merely shrugged.

“I'll take that as a 'yes' and not ask you to reveal more than you wish. I've never heard anyone accuse Dwarves of being overly dedicated to family, but I am starting to believe that might be due to the isolation and secretive nature of your folk.” He nodded to the young Dwarf and moved toward the door. “It is good to see that we have some things in common – that perhaps our peoples are not so different.”

Trisk sighed and got to his feet. “I think, Master Bard, that if you had the chance to get to know individuals of any of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, you would find that there are some things we all hold in common,” he stated quietly. “The races have their defining characteristics, but there are individuals of greater or lesser honor, compassion, and spirit. I'm sure there are kind and cruel Men, petty and gracious Elves, selfish and generous Hobbits, and Dwarves both greedy and charitable.”

 

* * *

 

Watching the Laketown dock recede in the distance had been one of the hardest things that Fíli had ever done. Kíli's hand on his arm was the only thing that had kept him anchored on the boat as it moved out across the lake toward the Lonely Mountain. He wanted to see Erebor, could not wait to walk into his uncle's kingdom with his kin, but it felt wrong not to have Viska at his side.

“Look at it this way, Fi. She'll be safer in Laketown, if Smaug is still alive,” Kíli commented quietly, trying to raise his brother's spirits. Fíli nodded a little, his gaze locked on the Mountain. The Company had reached the bank of the Long Lake in the early evening and disembarked with the supplies and gear contributed by the folk of Laketown. The Men eyed the Mountain distrustfully and pushed off quickly as soon as the last of the supplies were unloaded, leaving the group of adventurers shouldering their packs and exchanging eager looks. A sense of solemn excitement filled the air as they prepared for the last leg of their journey, Thorin's sapphire eyes burning with intensity as he waited impatiently for everyone to be ready. As the last pack was being swung into place, he was already moving, Dwalin only a step behind. The fair-haired prince felt his brother fall in next to him.

“Hard to believe that we are really here,” Kíli murmured. “We have reached Erebor!”

“Not quite,” Bilbo commented, coming up beside them and casting a dark look up the long, sloping way ahead. The archer grinned at him.

“We won't make the Mountain tonight,” Kíli agreed. He was chatting agreeably with their friend, but Fíli could see the concerned glances that were being thrown his way from the dark eyes, and offered a small smile to reassure his brother. “Though Thorin wants to use the light to get as close as possible,” Kíli continued. He pointed ahead to a low hill about a third of the way up the slope. “That is our goal for tonight, Master Baggins. Tomorrow, the Mountain. Then, we'll have to find the hidden door before the moon rises on Durin's Day.”

“And when exactly is that?” the Hobbit asked cautiously. A flicker of uncertainty crossed the raven-haired prince's face and a choked laugh escaped from Fíli.

“The day after tomorrow,” the elder replied. “Two days to reach the Mountain and find the door. Then the Stone. Then we return to Laketown and await Dáin.”

 

* * *

 

Viska wasn't sure which of Bard's daughters was more excited by the revelation of their Dwarf friend's identity. Sigrid seemed happy to find a female friend who appeared to be close to her own age, while Tilda was caught up in the secrecy. The little girl promised earnestly never to reveal Viska's gender, all the while squeezing a furry bundle in her lap until it yipped reproachfully and wriggled free. The Dwarrowmaid gaped at the flat-faced little dog that scrambled into her lap, curled tail wagging furiously as the pup planted its front paws on her shoulders and began licking her face. Recovering quickly, the lass laughed and scratched her new friend gently behind the ears, settling it down and cuddling it into her lap as Tilda giggled.

“You have an _uzbad-_ _kunb_?” Viska asked incredulously, glancing at the girls. “I did not see her yesterday!”

Sigrid smiled. “She's not actually ours. She lives next door, but Tilda sneaks her treats, so she thinks she belongs here, too.”

“What's a _uz-nab-kun_?” Tilda asked curiously, mangling the Khuzdul. The Dwarf lass grinned.

“An _uzbad-khunb_ ,” she repeated, enunciating carefully. “It means king-dog. Among Dwarves, these little flat-faced dears are considered the companions of royalty. They are also called _barathgalt-_ _kanâb_ , pig-dogs, because of the way they snort and grumble, but that's not nearly as dignified a name. I always preferred the other.”

“Her name is Walnut,” Tilda offered, petting her furry friend with a smile. “I play with her when Miss Nia is busy, because she says dogs need lots of attention.”

“That they do,” Viska agreed, setting the small dog down on the floor. Walnut promptly snorted her displeasure before racing off to grab a small stuffed toy that lay nearby and flopping down to chew on it industriously. “ _U_ _zbad-_ _kanâb_ are used to being the center of attention, so they need even more of it. I am glad to see that some of the breed survived Erebor's fall. I had always hoped to see one – Da's bedtime stories were often full of the mischievous little darlings.”

Getting to her feet, the Dwarrowlass washed her hands quickly in the basin that Sigrid kept full for that purpose, then turned to her young hostess. Hopefully, keeping busy would help keep her mind off of the Company, the Mountain, and Fíli.

“Now, what can I do to help you out, Sigrid? I'll warn you, I can cook, but Trisk is better at mending, so think on that before you make chore assignments.”

 

* * *

 

_In the depths of the Lonely Mountain, the Arkenstone waits as its servant draws ever closer. This one is not so susceptible as the Dwarf that it seized upon being freed from its prison so long ago, but the seed of power has been steeping in the corners of his heart and mind for much longer. But there is another power drawing near, as well – a greater power, a_ _darker power, bearing the signature of a fallen Maiar...._

 


	23. All Eyes on the Hidden Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it!
> 
> As ever, please excuse any mangling of Khuzdul. This is rather later than I had hoped, so it's not as polished as I would like, but I hope it's not too bad. Yes, I have taken liberties with the timeline regarding the ages of the survivors of Erebor, so it will not match either the book or the movies. Reviews are greatly appreciated!

By the time the Company reached the foot of the Lonely Mountain, Bilbo understood the caution shown by his companions in regards to their leader. The Hobbit had always found Thorin rather intimidating – he was the tallest of the Dwarves (save perhaps for Dwalin), and carried himself with a fierce, grim pride that could easily be interpreted as arrogance, focused on his goal with an intensity that could be a bit overwhelming. Over time (and goodness, had it _really_ been five months since he had left Bag End?), Bilbo had gotten used to the Dwarf lord's moods, and had seen his interactions with his companions, with his nephews. He was not given to overt displays of emotion, but the subtle, quiet moments were there for those who noticed detail – and that had always been one of Bilbo's talents. Thorin had been a king in bearing as much as name, a leader who motivated and inspired those who followed him, drawing more from them than they were even aware that they were able to give, but always giving of himself in return. Things had changed.

The initial stage of the climb up from the lake shore had been brief, the group reaching Kíli's hill just as evening fell, quickly setting up a sketchy camp and settling in to rest. There was little conversation, most of it quiet exchanges of necessary information, or murmurs of thanks for food handed around, and the Hobbit only noted that Thorin seemed more withdrawn than usual. As the depleted expedition continued their hike the next morning, however, the burglar gradually became aware of a great change in the exiled king's mood and behavior. Where once he had encouraged his weary companions when they faltered, now he drove them on with little patience. The Company was well-rested from Laketown, but the walk up from the shore of the lake was a long and weary one, weighed down as they were, with loose stones underfoot that could shift at any moment. When Bombur tripped and slid, Thorin glared. When Ori fell, he bellowed at him, drawing hostile looks from the scribe's elder brothers as they helped him to his feet. When Kíli stepped on a large stone and turned his ankle, the king snarled angrily as he himself dragged the young Dwarrow upright and shoved him forward before Fíli could assist his brother. After that, the Dwarves huddled into their family groups, helping one another scramble over the desolate landscape, hurrying to keep up with the cruel pace that their leader set. Thorin strode on ahead, alone, casting occasional looks over his shoulder. Bilbo, slightly steadier on his feet, with no heavy boots between him and the treacherous ground, found himself falling in with Fíli and Kíli at the back of the group, with Bifur and his cousins just ahead of them. Conversation was minimal, each of the Dwarves saving his breath for the climb. Kíli was limping slightly, but refused Fíli's offered arm, his face set in grim lines and dark eyes mutinous. The Hobbit wisely refrained from commenting on the lad's resemblance to his uncle, exchanging an exasperated look with the golden-haired prince instead. Ahead of them, Bombur huffed with exertion. The heavy Dwarf had toughened over the course of the journey, but the steep, steady incline was wearing him down, and unlike the archer, he was not too proud to accept assistance from his kin.

It was early afternoon when they reached the base of the Mountain's southern spur, surmounted by the remains of a watchtower. There, Thorin was persuaded to allow them a short break. He remained on his feet as the others sank down gratefully on the cold stone. Balin took a seat on a large boulder, staring up at the height with eyes full of memory, then turned to the princes and the Halfling as they sat nearby.

“ _Bâha-zunsh-hun_ _d_ ,” he murmured, indicating the tower high above. “Ravenhill. We used to sneak out to the watchtower as Dwarflings. You can see for miles. That is where the ravens of Erebor would bring their news to the Ravenspeakers, whether messages from allies or their own scouting reports.”

Bilbo gave him a quizzical look as Fíli and Kíli gazed up at this first glimpse of the works of their forefathers' hands. “Ravenspeakers?” he asked quietly. Balin nodded.

“You remember Óin's talk of the _sûd_ , the portents? That when the birds of yore returned, the reign of the beast would end? The birds of yore are the ravens, friends to the Dwarves since time out of mind. Messengers and scouts, they served us well in exchange for bright baubles and tidbits of food. Most Dwarves can understand them, but those with the greatest talent were trained as Ravenspeakers, earning honor and respect in Erebor. The gift is strong in the line of Durin, but not unheard-of among other families. I had just started my training when Smaug attacked – a lad in my forties, eager to learn, eager to serve.” The elder Dwarf had a sad smile of remembrance on his face. “My father and I were on Ravenhill when the hot wind swept down from the North and the ravens came screeching in with their warning. They saved our lives that day.”

Kíli seemed lost in his own thoughts, staring up at the crumbling structure, but Fíli turned to Balin curiously.

“I thought you were outside with Thorin that day,” he commented. “He doesn't speak of it often, but he has mentioned that he was outside with several companions when the dragon came.”

The adviser shook his head. “Thorin _was_ outside, but he was with Dwalin, Glóin, and a few others, including Kulvik. They were younger, still in the early days of their training, and they had been out overnight with their survival instructor, learning to live off of the land. They were on their way back, on the far western side of the Mountain, when Smaug descended. Fundin and I were there, on Ravenhill, while Óin and Gróin were on their way to the Healing Halls, for Óin had just begun his healer training. Thrór and Thráin, from what I can recall, were in the Throne Room. I believe now that they escaped through the hidden door that we seek, for no one remembered seeing them until they were among us, small a crowd as we were.”

“Our mother? And Frerin?” Kíli asked after a moment. Balin smiled slightly.

“They were deep in the Mountain,” he replied. “Frer was barely twenty, Dís only twelve or so. She had persuaded him to play Seek in _Nibgînu_ _Uzbâd_ , the Gallery of Kings, where they were not supposed to venture, save for ceremonies and feast days. Even then, your mother had her brothers wrapped firmly around her little finger, and Frerin could deny her nothing.” He sighed, his face lined with sorrow. “They emerged with the last wave of survivors, the lass terrified and the lad grief-stricken, begging forgiveness for not being able to find his mother.”

The Hobbit did not realize that some of the others had joined them until Ori spoke, his voice small and hesitant.

“Our mother was inside the Mountain, too...with Dori,” he stated, glancing at his brothers. Nori nodded, his eyes distant, and Dori managed a small smile.

“I was very small,” he replied softly. “ _Adad_ was a member of the guard, while _Amad_ was a serving lady to the princess and her ladies-in-waiting. She often took me with her when she worked. Lady Tila and Lady Srôfa never minded.” He laughed, glancing at Balin. “Lady Tila often gave me sweets,” he admitted. “ _Amad_ was the one that heard the warning that day, and they believed her without question. Princess Ara was not with them at the time, and my mother was wracked with guilt for years afterward, wishing she had gone looking for her before fleeing, but the ladies assured her that there was nothing that she could have done. The princess was on the far side of the Mountain, visiting with her kin, and none could have reached her in time.”

Bilbo shuddered, turning to look up at the looming Mountain as Dori's voice trailed away. He had known that the Dwarves had been driven from their home by the dragon's arrival, but never had he paused to actually think on what exactly that had entailed. “How many lived in Erebor, before the dragon came?” he asked quietly, meeting the faded blue eyes. Balin shook his head.

“I do not know, laddie,” he replied. “Ten thousand? Perhaps fifteen? I was but a lad at the time myself. My father would have known, but I do not.”

“And how many escaped?”

Brown eyes and sharp blue swung around to stare at their old teacher as Balin sighed.

“One thousand, nine hundred, and seventy-three Dwarrow met under the eaves of the eastern border of Mirkwood before the sun set that night,” he replied with the grim certainty of one who had carved the number in his soul. “Of those, ninety-one were gone before the next morning, dying of their wounds, or fire-lung. Another four hundred and thirteen died before we passed the Misty Mountains, of wounds, illness, and the dangers of the road. Fewer than forty babes were born during the Wandering, and only about half survived, Nori among them.”

The Hobbit was working the numbers in his head when he heard Fíli give the answer he sought.

“One thousand, four hundred and forty-nine,” the fair-haired prince murmured, meeting his brother's horrified gaze with a stricken look on his face. “Fewer than fifteen hundred reached the Blue Mountains, out of ten or fifteen _thousand_.”

“We learned later that others escaped and went North,” the white-haired Dwarf added. “Another thousand or so found new homes in the Iron Hills, and some of those joined us later, after Azanulbizar.”

Bilbo could feel silent tears tracking down his face as he stared up at the Mountain. So much of the Company's planning and anticipation had focused on the dragon, the treasure, and reclaiming their homeland. Never had he paused to consider the fact that his companions represented such a small number of survivors from Smaug's initial attack. Most of Erebor's inhabitants had never made it into Exile, whether consumed by the beast or dying in the chaos and destruction. He turned to Balin, to find his friend watching him with compassion. The elder Dwarf nodded when the Hobbit met his gaze.

“They will be entombed properly before the real work of the reconstruction begins,” came the calm assurance. “That has always been the plan, and Dáin's folk would be summoned for that even if we find the dragon dead on a mountain of gold when we enter. This is not Azanulbizar, where the dead had to be burned to save them from the despoiling hands of Orcs and Goblins. All those within the Mountain will be given back to the stone, as Mahal intended, so that their spirits may rest easy in the Halls of Waiting.”

* * *

 

_Once, Thorin would have been at Balin's side, a strong presence for the youngest members of the Company as they realize that the home they sought to enter is in fact a tomb. Once, he would have gazed with pride on his sister-sons as they stand and vow to help honor the dead in the halls of Erebor. Once, he would have grieved with his kin who had been at his side in the Wandering, remembering those who never made it out of the Mountain as well as those that had died along the way. Once, he was Thorin, son of Thráin – uncle, cousin, and friend. Now, however, he is Thorin, rightful King Under the Mountain, and he has more important concerns than sorrow for those long dead. The song has been growing in his mind since the near edge of Mirkwood, growing ever stronger as they draw closer to the Mountain. It is a haunting, seductive melody, so unlike the deep rhythm of his childhood. It speaks of riches, rather than home; glory rather than safety. It is reaching, and yearning, and the lure of what is just out of his grasp. It is possession, hunger, and the knowledge that what one has is never enough._

* * *

 

The day after the Company's departure from Erebor, Tauriel and Legolas still lingered under the eaves of the forest, keeping a wary watch on Laketown. The Orcs had begun returning to their abandoned camp, trickling back in small groups. There were not quite so many as before, but there were still enough to give two Elves a stiff battle if it were needed, and they were loathe to leave the town of Men undefended until the filthy creatures had departed the area. So, they watched, taking it in turns to spend time in the quiet meditation that served to give them rest. The Orcs paid them no mind, but seemed to be waiting once more, whether for some action on the part of the Elves or for some orders from their own leaders was unclear.

“Surely they will leave soon,” Legolas muttered, glaring at their enemies through narrowed blue eyes. “There is nothing here for them. The Dwarves are gone, well on their way to the Mountain.”

The fire-haired she-Elf shrugged slightly. “I do not know. Perhaps they were told to wait there until given further orders.”

The flaxen-haired prince nodded slightly and glanced at the setting sun. “Another full day,” he decided. “If they have made no move by dawn on the first day of Winter, we will return to my father's halls.”

* * *

 

Within Laketown, the Orcs were all but forgotten by the two young Dwarrow that had remained behind. Over the past two days, Triskel and Viska had spent long hours helping Bard and his children with long-delayed repairs to home and tools, developing an easy friendship with the youngsters and a slightly more reserved one with the bargeman. Trisk was endlessly patient with Bain, answering the young Man's eager questions about the quest while still maintaining Dwarven secrecy on their plans and goals. It was after dinner the first night, after Tilda had gone to bed, that the young Dwarf realized that the boy was fascinated by the tales of the battles that they had fought, hanging on every word with a bright gleam in his eyes. Exchanging a worried glance with his sister, Trisk subtly altered the tone of his stories, focusing on the fear for his friends, the brutality of their foes, the confusion and turmoil of the battlefield. Gratitude lit Bard's eyes as they emphasized the idea of fighting because they must, rather than seeking conflict for glory or excitement, but it took a while for Bain's enthusiasm to fade. It was not until the second night that he seemed to truly understand. That was the night that Viska told the tale of the Goblin raid on Emyn Uial, the scar across her face giving brutal emphasis to the narration. She spared them nothing of her experience, relating how she had deliberately drawn the Goblins' attention away from a younger lass, how they had attacked her with vile intent even as the building burned around them, how they had choked, clawed, and raged when she fought back. The Dwarrowlass even pulled up a leg of her trousers to show the ragged scars, and Bain's face paled to a sickly hue as he turned to stare at his father. Bard nodded, one hand tight on Sigrid's shoulder as the young woman sat with her hands over her mouth, a horrified look on her face.

“Battle is not glory, son,” the bargeman murmured. “You fight to preserve what is good and precious, because you must, but not everyone returns from the field, and nothing can return the lives that are lost.”

Viska felt slightly guilty, watching the innocent fervor fade from the boy's face, but Trisk caught her eye and shook his head, hands moving in subtle gestures.

_Better to learn it now than on the battlefield_ , he commented silently. _Bard wanted him to learn this way._ Adad _would have preferred for_ us _to learn this way._

Still, once the tale was done (tears of sympathy in Sigrid's eyes when Viska spoke of her father's death, and Bain flinching at this confirmation of Bard's words), the lass switched to traditional stories told to Dwarflings, lightning the mood as best she could before everyone retired for the night. Bard paused to clasp a comforting hand on her shoulder, looking down into her face with dark eyes full of compassion.

“I do not know what your brother said to you earlier, when he was using that gesture-language of yours,” he stated gently, “but I hope that he was telling you not to feel ashamed for telling them the truth of combat. It is not a glorious adventure, as you know, and I would prefer that he have no illusions, should he be forced to fight.”

The Dwarrowmaid nodded and thanked him quietly before going out to the main area of the house to lay out her bedroll next to Trisk's. Her brother watched her carefully, concern in his eyes, until she met his gaze and managed a small smile.

“I am alright, _nadad_ ,” she assured him, slipping out of her coat and running her fingers through her hair as she settled on her pallet. “I am worried about the others, and I cannot deny that there is an icy shard of fear in my heart, but I am alright.”

The silversmith watched her for another long moment before giving her a smile and a nod and producing a comb from his pack.

“Come here, _namadith_ , and let me comb out your hair. It is past time it was braided once more, and I have a gift for you.”

She cocked a brow curiously as she shifted over to sit with her back to him, feeling tension ease from her muscles as he ran the comb gently through her chestnut locks. Her eyes drifted closed, listening to him hum softly. The song was an old ballad that their father had loved and she soon found herself humming along with him, pulling the silver clasp from her pocket to run her fingers over it.

“What is that?” Trisk asked, turning her head gently so that he could partition her hair for the first of her customary braids. “I saw him hand you the knife, but I did not see what else he gave you.”Viska smiled, her eyes flickering open so she could study each detail of the hair clip that she held. It was worn, and had been slightly tarnished before she had polished it carefully, but it was instantly recognizable as the clasp that had held Fíli's hair restrained, twin to the only ornament that Kíli wore in his untamed raven mop, and only slightly different from those worn by the other descendants of Durin's blood. A leather thong now bound that golden mane, rather than the silver piece embossed with the sigil of Durin's house. Trisk's fingers stilled as he got a clear look at it, then resumed their careful work, a small smile visible behind his auburn beard.

“A courting gift?” he asked, a slightly teasing tone to his voice as he clipped a bead into place on the first braid. Viska made a face at him, but did not resist when he urged her to turn her head the other way and began on the second braid.

“An expression of interest,” she corrected, a tiny smile dancing on her lips. Trisk gave an inelegant snort.

“As if you did not already know that he was interested.”

The lass laughed, then sobered as she remembered the blue-eyed prince's words as he pressed it into her hand. “He knew about the letter than Thorin gave us for Lady Dís,” she explained quietly. “This is a message for her, if the Company does not return. He said that she would know what it meant.”

Trisk nodded, hazel eyes fixed on his task. “It is his way of telling her that you are his beloved, asking her to accept you as _agnât-nâtha_ ,” he murmured, never pausing as he wove the intricate pattern in her hair. “It is the best gift he could give you, _makhsith_.”

Viska smiled at the old nickname, glancing at her brother. “It is a long time since you called me that,” she commented. He grinned at her, snapping the second bead into place.

“It is long since the name fit,” he replied. “You were fierce from the time you could pick up a blade, no longer the shy little fawn who hid behind her big brother when _Adad's_ friends came to visit.” He sat back and studied her braids critically before finally nodded in satisfaction. “Now you look like a proper Dwarrowmaid again,” he told her, tucking the comb back into his pack. She smiled and gave her head a little shake, setting the braids to swinging before she thought to glance at the beads.

“These aren't my old beads,” she commented, catching the end of a braid to study it closer. Her eyes widened at the emblem marked in the silver, then her gaze traveled further, to the unfamiliar intricacy of the braid itself.

“They were _Amad's_ ,” he replied, his voice low. “Da kept them for you, so you could wear them when you were ready to think about courting. These are the beads that he gave her.”

“And Maiden's Braids?” she teased, holding up the complex weave. “So eager to be rid of me, _nadad_?”

He smiled and brushed a stray hair off of her forehead. “You cannot formally begin a courtship without Maiden's Braids,” he retorted. “Da taught you the traditions of Erebor. Fíli would be scandalized if you offered him a bead without them in place.”

She snorted, turning away to stretch out on her pallet. “Fíli would not care,” she informed him.

“Probably not,” he agreed, extinguishing the candle and settling onto his own bedroll, his voice heavy with fatigue. “But Balin might, and Thorin, not to mention Dori. Remember, _makhsith_ , Fíli is no merchant or craftsman, but an heir of Durin, who will be Crown Prince of Erebor once it is retaken. There are proprieties to be observed, traditions to be upheld.”

Weary from the day's work, he drifted off quickly, his snores soon rumbling through the room. Viska lay awake for much longer, listening to the comfortingly familiar sound as her agitated mind dwelt on what he had said. She had always known Fíli's status, but she had never really stopped to think about what that meant for her as their relationship grew.

_He will be King Under the Mountain_ , she realized abruptly, something like panic seizing her heart. _Years from now, when Thorin goes to the Halls of Waiting, Fíli will rule. And I...I will be his queen._

It was a terrifying prospect for the lass from Emyn Uial, untutored in the ways of royalty or the art of diplomacy. She lay awake in the darkness of the night for several long hours before she was finally able to drift off into a restless sleep, roaming the land of dreams under U'rakh's gentle guardianship.

* * *

 

The Company spent that night, the night before Durin's Day, camped near the western base of the Lonely Mountain, near where the map showed the hidden door. They had reached the sheltered valley in the early evening, Thorin sending his nephews and the Hobbit out to do a preliminary search in the fading light as the others set up camp. They returned as darkness fell, with no news of the door, but Balin was able to soothe the king's anger, pointing out that it was undoubtedly high above them.

“Tomorrow, we will search for a way up,” the white-haired elder assured him. Thrór and Thráin came from this general area when they joined the refugees, and the map clearly shows that it is nearby. We have all day tomorrow to find it, Thorin, and find it we shall.”

Thráin's son gave grudging agreement and accepted a portion of food from their stores as he settled in to rest. Kíli sat next to his brother, noting the way that Fíli's gaze turned often in the direction of Laketown, far behind them and out of sight. Pressing a packet of dried fruit into the golden prince's hand, the archer gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“She'll be fine, _nadad_.”

Fíli nodded heavily, though a shadow still lingered in those blue eyes, and he returned the smile. “I know she is safer there, should Smaug still live, but it was hard to leave her behind.”

The dark-haired prince grimaced in agreement and clasped his brother's shoulder tightly. “Another day, possibly two, and we can return,” he promised. “Bilbo will retrieve the Arkenstone and Thorin will send for Dáin, and we will return to Esgaroth to await the army of the Iron Hills. And perhaps your maiden will finally offer you a courting bead and add another braid to that mane of yours.”

* * *

 

Durin's Day dawned clear and cold over the town on the Long Lake, and Viska woke filled with equal measures of anxiety and anticipation. She spent the morning as busy as she could manage, trying to keep her mind busy so she could not dwell on her worry for a certain golden prince, his broad smile punctuated by deep dimples beneath his beard. Sigrid watched her in bemused confusion as Tilda played with Walnut, the little dog's grumbles and growls making the child laugh with delight. Bain and Trisk had gone out to help Bard with repairs to his barge. The Dwarrowlass did not even realize that she was playing absently with her new braids until Sigrid's gentle chuckle brought her up short.

“What do they mean?” the girl asked. Viska turned to meet her gray eyes, puzzled by the question.

“What do what mean?” she asked, confused.

“The braids,” the bargeman's daughter replied with a smile. “They seem to make you nervous, or happy, I am not certain which.”

“A little of both,” the lass admitted, her face warming with a slight blush. “They are called Maiden's Braids, and they mean that I am thinking of courting,”

“Ah.” Sigrid did not say anything else for a long moment, the silence punctuated by Walnut's playful yip as Tilda held up a favorite toy. Finally, the girl turned back to her baking, the next question tossed idly over her shoulder. “I assume you have a specific Dwarf lad in mind, then? Perhaps one of the brothers that came with you before they left? Fíli and Kíli?” She glanced back, mischief dancing in her eyes as Viska stared at her, a fiery blush spreading over the Dwarrowmaid's cheeks. Delighted by the reaction she was getting, Sigrid grinned and continued to muse aloud. “They were quite handsome, for Dwarves. Funny, and kind. Quite heroic, as well, the way the fair-haired one jumped into the lake after Til.” The girl paused then, an unreadable expression flitting across her face before she fixed her gaze on Viska once more. “They said they were the king's heirs,” she murmured, awed even at the memory. “If you wed one of them, you will be a princess!”

Viska sighed and nodded, laughing when Sigrid gave a shrill squeal of delight and darted over to hug her tightly.

“That is the only negative aspect,” the lass admitted ruefully. “The prospect of being queen terrifies me.”

Sigrid's eyes widened, sympathy filling her face, and she appeared to consider her next words carefully. “I do not know you well, my friend, but what I do know makes me think that you would be a compassionate queen, especially at the side of such a king. Da was most impressed with his passion and dedication to his people when they spoke that day.”

* * *

 

The Company had spent Durin's Day searching for the way up to the hidden door, and Kíli was starting to worry as the sun passed the midway point. He was searching with his brother and the burglar, determined to find the path before any of the others, when the Hobbit's clear voice rang out in the crisp air.

“Kíli, do you see that? Does that look like a staircase to you? Or at least a few steps?”

The younger prince came around a great boulder and followed Bilbo's pointing finger. A wide grin spread across his face and he nodded.

“It does, Mister Boggins!” he agreed, laughing when the burglar rolled his eyes at the old joke. “Fíli! Call Thorin and the others! Bilbo's found the way up!”

The elder prince jogged over to look for himself, smiling as Kíli pounded the Hobbit gently on the back. “Well done, Master Burglar!” He glanced at his brother. “Do you want to check it out first? Just to be sure?”

Kíli exchanged a glance with Bilbo and the Halfling shrugged, glancing at the sky.

“It's past midday now, and it might take a bit to find the door,” he commented. “Why don't you lads start up, and I'll go get Thorin.”

The princes nodded, grinning at one another, then Kíli made a mocking bow and waved Fíli ahead of him.

“Age before beauty, dear brother.”

His older brother snorted and swatted at him, but took the lead and Kíli followed, excitement building in his heart. The hidden door, their way into Erebor, lay somewhere ahead, and he would be one of the first to see it. It only took a few moments to realize that Fíli's eagerness had faded and his steps had slowed. Peering up, the archer saw his brother's shoulders had slumped as he walked. Taking the rough stairs two at a time, Kíli caught up to him and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“We've found the door, _nadad_ ,” he murmured encouragingly. “You will see her again soon.”

Fíli gave a small shake of his head and a sideways grin, glancing briefly at him. “It's disconcerting when you read my mind like that, you know.”

“It's what brothers are for.”

The stairs turned into a rough path, which faded out occasionally so that they had to scan the ground to find it again. Kíli was in his element, sharp tracker's eyes picking out remnants of the track as they moved up the side of the Mountain. It wound back and forth as it reached ever higher, finally ending in a deep ledge, carpeted in fading fall grass, with a sheer blank wall at the far end. Kíli stared at it in dismay.

“All that for nothing?” he demanded incredulously. “Thorin is going to kill us!”

“Wait, _kandith_ ,” Fíli cautioned him, approaching the flat stone wall. “Does this wall look natural to you?”

Kíli glanced at his brother, then studied the patch of wall more closely. It was too smooth, compared to the rough sides of the Mountain. A grin spread across his face and he hurried back along the path a few steps, to where he could hear Thorin and the others following.

“We've found it!” he called down, all youthful ebullience. “Bilbo found the path, and Fíli's found the door! Hurry up, _dallat_!”

The rumble of their retorts wasn't quite close or loud enough to make out clearly, but he could imagine what they were saying and he laughed. Fíli just sighed and shook his head with a small smile. He leaned back against the side of the Mountain, face up to the sky, eyes closed, letting the late autumn sun warm his face. For the first time since leaving Viska behind in Esgaroth, he looked peaceful, almost relaxed.

Footsteps on the path alerted the dark-haired prince to the arrival of the rest of the Company and he turned to greet them, giving a small teasing bow as Thorin entered the little bay. His uncle did not seem to notice, deep sapphire eyes finding the smooth surface of the door immediately. He strode over purposefully, barely acknowledging the elder prince as Fíli stepped out of the way. Balin spared each of the lads a small smile as he followed the king, and Bilbo moved over to stand with them as the rest of their companions waited in a bunch near the top of the path.

“The last light of Durin's Day,” Thorin muttered to himself, turning to glance at the setting sun as he pulled the key from under his tunic. The red orb was sinking behind a thick band of clouds and Kíli tensed anxiously, staring at the wall, begging silently for something to happen, for some clue to present itself. The last moon of Autumn was dropping from the sky as well, and the ledge on the side of the Mountain was silent, without even the sound of breathing. Then, as the sun was about to disappear, a thin shaft of light pierced the clouds, focusing on a small point on the wall. A resounding crack echoed 'round the bay and a large piece of the rock fell, revealing the keyhole.

Kíli stared, only barely aware that he had clamped a hand on his brother's arm and had it in a painfully tight grip. Fíli's blue eyes were fixed on their uncle, and Bilbo almost looked ready to snatch the key from Thorin's hand and open the door himself. Balin appeared to be holding his breath as the king-in-exile stepped forward to fit the old iron key into the keyhole. Thorin's eyes flickered shut and his lips moved in a silent prayer as he turned it carefully. The aged mechanism seemed to resist at first, but then a snap could be heard deep within the stone. Placing both hands on the smooth expanse of the wall, Thorin Oakenshield pushed open the hidden door, the secret entrance to Erebor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Bâha-zunsh-hund – Ravenhill  
> sûd – portents  
> Nibgînu Uzbâd – The Gallery of Kings, within Erebor  
> agnât-nâtha – daughter by marriage (I was unable to find the actual term, so this is constucted from the words for 'in law' and 'daughter')  
> makhsith – little deer, fawn  
> U'rakh – The Dwarven name for the Vala Irmo, Lord of Dreams and Visions  
> kandith – little wolf  
> dallat – slugs


	24. Back Unto the Caverns Old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave comments, reviews, critiques, or feedback. The kudos are appreciated too :)

The Company stood for long moments, staring at the rectangle of deeper darkness that was the tunnel. Finally, Thorin shook his head sharply and glanced over.

“Glóin, a torch.”

The burly merchant started, then nodded and dug out his tinderbox as Nori pulled a prepared torch loose from a strap on his pack. Once it was lit, Glóin handed it over with a half bow. Thorin took it with a small nod of acknowledgment, then turned and approached the entrance, Balin at his side. The king's face softened slightly as he looked at his old friend, then he took a deep breath and stepped through the door.

Kíli found himself moving forward, his brother at his side, as Balin followed Thorin into the Mountain. The king had stopped a few steps in, one reverent hand on the wall.

“I know this stone,” he murmured softly, leaning his forehead to the green marble. “I know these walls. This is home.”

The door was narrow and the princes could not enter side by side, so Kíli let his brother enter a step ahead, following quickly on his heels. It was a secret tunnel – plain, narrow, dark – but there was still a feeling of awe as he stepped over the threshold and set foot in Erebor. This was the kingdom that his great-grandfather had ruled, the Mountain where his uncles and mother had been born, where thousands of their people had died when Smaug descended in fire and smoke. He turned to find Fíli gazing about him with wonder on his face. Kíli reached out and grasped the golden-haired prince's shoulder and shining blue eyes found his. Turning to his uncle, the younger prince saw that he still leaned into stone of the wall, looking for all the world as though he was communing with the very Mountain. After several long moments, he pulled away and turned to them, a small smile on his face for the first time that Kíli could remember since they had left Beorn's.

“Welcome, my sister-sons, to Erebor, though this is but the darkest corner,” he stated solemnly.

Kíli could hear the others starting to crowd in behind him and he moved against the wall to give them space. As he did so, a carving over the door caught his eye – an ornate chair topped by an etched stone. Bilbo was looking at it, too, and Balin glanced at them.

“The throne of the king,” he explained quietly.

“And what is that above it?” the Hobbit asked.

“The Arkenstone.”

The reply came from Fíli, and the Halfling glanced at him in confusion. Then Thorin spoke.

“That, Master Burglar, is why you are here.”

“The Arkenstone is the king's jewel,” the elder prince explained. “It is a magnificent white gem the size of your fist that glows with its own inner light. The armies of the Dwarf kingdoms are bound by oath to answer the summons of the one who holds the stone. Once Thorin has the Arkenstone, our kin in the Iron Hills will come and help us with the dragon.”

“If it isn't already dead,” Kíli added hopefully.

“I wouldn't hold my breath for that, laddie,” Balin countered. “Still, I guess we can hope.”

Bilbo was looking a little pale and wild-eyed, and Kíli suddenly found himself wondering if anyone had actually told the Hobbit what was expected of him. Surely Gandalf, or Balin, or Thorin, had given him details once the contract was signed?

“So...you want me to try and steal this Arkenstone from under the nose of the dragon?” he squeaked.

That would be a 'no,' then. The dark prince saw Fíli staring at the burglar in concern, as if afraid he might faint again. Which didn't seem like such an unlikely possibility, come to think of it.

“Exactly,” Thorin rumbled. Bilbo sighed and visibly swallowed, then nodded.

“Very well, then. I'll need to go alone, I imagine?”

“I'll go with you a little way,” Balin volunteered with a sympathetic smile. “I still remember the secrets of the Mountain, so I can give you a bit of direction.” The Hobbit nodded, his hand drifting to his pocket, as it had so often since the Misty Mountains. Kíli clapped him gently on the shoulder and offered him an encouraging smile.

“Best of luck, and be careful, my friend.”

Fíli echoed the sentiments, and handed over a fresh torch, then the others chimed in, crowding around to wish him well in quiet voices. As they stood back to watch the two figures move down the corridor, the elder prince flicked a glance at Thorin.

“Should we move outside?” he asked quietly. “We don't want the dragon smelling us if he _is_ still down there.”

Thorin merely nodded, still watching the tunnel, and the princes led the rest of the Company back out into the little sheltered bay on the side of the Mountain. They set up a sketchy camp, but did not start a fire. Instead, they sat on their bedrolls and ate dry travel rations, keeping their voices low. Thorin and Balin joined them shortly, propping the hidden door with a large rock so it would not close them out. And so they settled in to await the return of their burglar.

* * *

 

The last moon of autumn was beginning its descent when Tauriel returned from a quick foraging expedition under the eaves of the forest. She had heard the voice of the prince long before, so she was not surprised to find him engaged in frustrated conversation with an apologetic Suilrien. The chestnut-haired guard was a dear friend to both of the defiant Elves, and Thranduil had probably thought her the most likely to sway them.

“The king is most insistent, Legolas,” she murmured with a shrug. “Cevendir gave him your message, but he deems a threat to Laketown unlikely, as the Orcs are focused on the Dwarves.”

“And when have Orcs ever left others in peace?” the golden-haired archer retorted sharply, his eyes narrowed with irritation. “I remember when our policy was to slay such filth on sight. Now we capture and imprison Aulë's folk, but let Morgoth's creations travel uncontested through our forest, to threaten our allies?” There was an edge of bitterness in his voice now, and it tore at the Captain's heart to hear her friend's pain. “How long have I been blind to my father's folly, Suilrien? How long since he exchanged honor for cowardice and isolation, the lives of others for our people?”

Suilrien shook her head, her dark gaze drifting to meet Tauriel's, unsure whether they should answer their prince's plea. Then something else caught her eye, and she froze, staring over the flame-haired Elf's shoulder. Tauriel cursed and spun, dropping the late berries that she had found in the forest as she drew her hunting knives.

The Orcs were on the move. Worse, they had clearly been on the move for a while, unremarked by the distracted watchers. A small group was crossing the bridge into Laketown, the guards at the gate certainly dead. The rest of them were not immediately visible, but Tauriel did not doubt that they were nearby. She was already moving, alert for any sign of the remaining Orcs, as Legolas gave Suilrien curt orders to return to the king's halls for aid. A moment later, he was at her side, matching her strides as they raced for the town of Men where the inhabitants lay on the edge of sleep, unaware of death stalking the streets.

* * *

 

Bard, Triskel, and Bain had returned in the late afternoon, the barge repaired, and everyone having worked up a good appetite for the evening meal. Afterward, Bard disappeared once more, alone this time, after a murmured word with his eldest. Trisk exchanged a worried look with his sister, seeing the concern in Sigrid's eyes as the girl nodded and watched her father leave. Clearing the table, the young silversmith joined their hostess at the sink as she began to wash the dishes, Bain drying them as she went.

“Trouble?” the Dwarf asked quietly, sliding a plate into the water. Sigrid shook her head, shooting a quick glance at Tilda. The younger girl was engaged in a spirited game of tug-rope with Walnut, the little dog's playful growls nearly as loud as her giggling, and the elder sister smiled as she watched them, then looked back to Trisk.

“Nothing specific,” she replied with a shrug. “It's just that there is unrest in town, and Da and some of the other men are trying to keep everyone settled. The Master made another unpopular declaration today, and they have gone to soothe the people if they can. Da doesn't like the Master, but he likes the idea of the people making hasty decisions in anger even less.”

“Understandable,” he agreed with a grimace. “Judging by the undercurrents we've seen in town just since our arrival, though, something to needs to change soon. The people won't stand for many more of his policies and declarations.”

“No, they won't,” Bain replied tightly. “Da and the others want it to be a peaceful change of leadership, but-”

The boy broke off as Sigrid shushed him, her head swiveling toward the door. Trisk froze, darting a look at his sister as he listened intently, trying to hear whatever had alerted the girl. After a moment, the bargeman's daughter relaxed minutely and shook her head.

“I thought I heard someone on the stairs,” she apologized. “Da's not due back for hours, so I feared-”

“ _S_ _hosh_!”

This time, Viska did the hushing, green eyes fixed on the front door as Walnut erupted into a flurry of barking. Trisk had heard it too, and he was already reaching for the nearest kitchen knife as his sister moved toward the door. Scooping Walnut up on her way, the Dwarrowmaid tucked the dog gently into Tilda's arms and whispered something in her ear. Wide-eyed, the child hurried toward her siblings, squeezing her little furry friend tightly. Sigrid pulled her close and Trisk saw Bain moving slightly in front of his sisters as the silversmith positioned himself between the children and the threat. Viska had Fíli's blade already drawn as she reached for the latch.

What happened next was a confusion of noise and movement, sending terror surging up into his throat. The door burst open just as Viska's hand touched it, catching the Dwarrowmaid full on and knocking her backward. The massive form of an Orc loomed in the doorway, a twisted smirk on its face as it entered the little house. Walnut was barking, furious yaps of anger and defiance somewhat smothered by Sigrid's dress as the girl huddled protectively over her sister. Tilda was screaming, sharp and shrill, and Bain was yelling hoarsely as he tried to shove the girls to safety. Trisk was moving, kitchen knife forgotten as he hurled himself at the Orc, catching it off guard and slamming it into the wall. A sudden scrabbling noise on the roof told him that there were more of the filth above them, and he felt his stomach fill with acidic fear even as he tried desperately to reach one of the Orc's weapons and use it against his enemy. The window at the front of the house exploded in a shower of broken wood and thick glass shards just as his hand closed on the haft of a serrated dagger. Yanking it free of its sheath, he planted it in the Orc's gut and put all of his weight into dragging it sideways. Black blood erupted from the rent in the thick hide as the young Dwarrow spun to face the threat behind him, but the other Orc's blow never fell. A cry of “ _K_ _hazâd ai-mênu!_ ” rang through the room as Viska threw herself forward, the hunting knife flashing in her hand before she buried it hilt-deep in the Orc's ribs, digging toward the heart.

Trisk stared at his sister for a heartbeat, relieved to see her whole and conscious, before an ominous cracking sound overhead drew his attention. Hazel eyes darted around the room without thought, absently storing knowledge even as he moved, the black-stained serrated blade still in his hand. Tilda was crouched beneath the table with the dog as Bain stood over her, a heavy skillet hoisted in one hand. Sigrid was next to him, gripping a knife in one trembling hand, but even as the silversmith turned away, her gaze lit on something else and she dropped the blade, lunging for the bundles of dried herbs that hung over her head.

That was when the roof gave out under the weight of the Orcs above them, dropping the beasts into the center of the room. Moving to hamstring the nearest, the young Dwarf caught a flicker of movement as the bargeman's daughter yanked something dark and metallic from near the ceiling. He bellowed a warning as one of the Orcs turned toward the children, but something fierce had flared into life on Sigrid's gentle face, and she stepped forward, bringing the metal shaft up with all of her strength, driving the point into the underside of the Orc's chin and driving it up into the brain. It cut through with surprising ease and she stumbled back as the beast crumpled, shock painted on its twisted features. Trisk gaped, leaving his guard open for that moment too long, and a filthy sword swung for his face faster than he could dodge.

_Thunk_

An Elvish arrow stood in the Orc's forehead, and suddenly two tall, slender forms were moving through the chaos, one flame-haired and the other spun gold. They did not fight so much as dance, a deadly choreography of anticipation, deflection, and reaction with the ease of long-trusted partners. In the space of a few heartbeats, the last of the Orcs had fallen and the two young Dwarrow stood staring in bewilderment at the Woodland Elves. One was the leader of the patrol that had captured them in the Mirkwood, while the other was the she-Elf that had saved Kíli and Viska from the spiders. Silence rang through the tiny house, broken only by the harsh breathing of the combatants and the soft whimpers from the furry little bundle under the table. The children and the Dwarves stared at the Elves, while the male Elf stared at the Dwarves and the female stared at the long metal shaft that was buried in the Orc that Sigrid had killed.

Tilda broke the frozen tableau, releasing Walnut and scrambling out to bury her face in Sigrid's skirts. The elder sister sank down and pulled the little girl to her, cuddling her close and rocking her gently, murmuring reassuring words in her ears. Bain sank down next to his sisters, absently scrubbing at the pup's ears when Walnut burrowed into his lap. The male Elf raised one regal golden eyebrow at the Dwarves, as though waiting for them to speak. Viska found her voice first.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, sounding equal parts incredulous and furious as she stalked toward the fair-haired Elf. Trisk felt a fleeting sense of relief that she had not yet retrieved the hunting knife from her fallen foe. The Elf merely stared at her, the look in his blue eyes as close to incredulous as the Dwarf had ever seen in one of the Firstborn. “Did you follow us? Did you follow _them_?” Here, her hand flew out to indicate the dead Orcs scattered through the room, their black blood seeping into the worn wood. “Is there a reason that you allowed Orcs to creep unhindered into Laketown? I thought you were _allies_!” She stopped in front of him, deep disgust on her face as she shook her head. “But then, so also you served the Dwarves when our people were your allies,” she growled. “You had no qualms about leaving the children of Erebor to the tender attentions of the dragon, or the perils of the road as they went into Exile. The Elves of the Mirkwood care for no one but themselves!”

“And the Dwarves of Erebor care for nothing but their treasure!” he snapped back at her, fire flashing in his eyes. “Where are you companions now, but seeking a way into the Lonely Mountain, sure to rouse the dragon and bring destruction on the Men of Laketown? Did you slow them on their journey, Dwarf, that they left you behind?”

Groaning quietly, Trisk stepped to his sister's side, even as the fire-haired female Elf dropped a hand to her companion's shoulder.

“They saved our lives, and those of Bard's children, _namadith_ ,” the silversmith hissed, pulling her back a step. “Let them speak and you may have an answer. Goad them unnecessarily, and do not be surprised if your anger is returned to you.”

The Elves were conversing hurriedly in their fluid tongue before the fair-haired one cast one last irritated look at the Dwarves and then left quickly. The she-Elf watched him go, then turned to the children. Bain and his sisters were still huddled together on the far side of the room, watching the exchange with wide eyes. Sigrid had Tilda's face pulled into her shoulder, trying to shield the girl from the sight of the dead Orcs.

“My name is Tauriel,” the Dwarves' former captor announced gently. “I am a Captain of the Guard in Mirkwood, and I have some small skill in healing, if any of you are injured.” She glanced briefly at the Dwarrow, including them in the offer, but no one spoke for a long moment.

“We are well,” Sigrid finally replied, managing a small smile. She glanced down at her sister and her mouth twisted. “Physically, at least,” she amended. “Bain?”

“No injuries,” he answered quickly, shaking his head. Trisk peered at each of them in turn before finally nodding and turning to offer a shallow hand-on-heart bow to the Captain.

“The young ones before you are Sigrid, Bain, and little Tilda, children of Bard of Laketown,” he told her politely. “I am Triskel, son of Kulvik, late of Emyn Uial, and this is my sister, Viska. I fear her blood is still hot from the battle.”

Viska sighed and gave a reluctant nod when Tauriel smiled slightly.

“I understand words spoken in haste,” came the calm reply. “And I cannot begrudge your suspicion. We were following the Orcs, Legolas and I, and we hoped to prevent anything like this. Unfortunately, we were distracted by a messenger from our king, and did not see the Orcs creeping into town until they were well on their way.” The tall maiden turned and offered a low bow to the children. “For that, I apologize. You should never have been in such danger. We failed you, and my heart grieves at what might have happened here tonight.”

Viska's hands moved in unconscious gestures of frustration and Trisk hid a smile as his sister sighed once more before meeting the Elf-maid's gaze.

“My brother has the right of it,” she admitted. “You saved our lives, and we owe you thanks, not accusations. My apologies, Lady Tauriel, and my gratitude. I fear our presence is what endangered the children in the first place, so thank you. I will offer the same to your companion if I see him again.”

Tauriel nodded graciously, then knelt by the nearest Orc corpse, pulling the hunting knife free. She studied it for a moment before offering it to Viska, a knowing glint in her green eyes.

“The emblem on that pommel-nut matches that on several other weapons we confiscated from your companions,” she observed neutrally. “From one in particular, if I recall correctly. I am impressed that he managed to conceal that one from us.” Viska did not reply, but accepted it with a nod when Tauriel handed it to her, then frowned in recognition when the she-Elf produced another, smaller blade, this one also familiar. “I believe that this is yours as well,” she murmured, handing over the knife that the Dwarrowlass had found in the Troll-hoard so long ago.

“Sig, what _is_ that?”

Trisk glanced over to see Bain staring at the Orc that his sister had killed, his face a mixture of disgust and curiosity. Sigrid glanced up from soothing Tilda and blushed.

“Da's had it hidden ever since I can remember,” she replied with a shrug. “Though how he expected me not to notice when I do the cooking and dry the herbs, I do not know. Still, he seemed to think it better concealed, so I left it alone.”

Now that it had been mentioned, Trisk could not take his eyes off of the thick metal shaft that the girl had driven into the Orc's throat, and he heard Tauriel give a gasp of recognition.

“A black arrow! How came he by a black arrow? Only a few were ever forged, and they were in the hands of Girion of Dale, lost when the city fell!”

The red-haired Dwarrow shared a look with his sister.

“Bard is descended of Girion,” he said slowly, remembering the scene in front of the Dwarves' borrowed house that first morning in Laketown. “Could he have kept one all this time?”

“It appears so.”

Tauriel knelt by the corpse, pulling the arrow free and wiping the black blood from its length, wonder and hope in her eyes. Bain was watching her closely, but made no protest when the precious heirloom was taken into reverent hands.

“The story says that Girion fired nearly all of the black arrows that day,” the boy commented, looking at little dazed to see one of the legendary weapons in his own home. “The last he released knocked loose a scale on the dragon's breast, and if he'd had only one more shot, he would have taken the beast down. But the tower that he was on collapsed, and he barely escaped with his life. He must have had the last arrow in his hand when it fell, and carried it with him out of the destruction.”

Trisk laughed, relief in his voice as he turned to hug his sister and press his forehead to hers.

“We stand a chance!” he muttered hoarsely. “Even with Dáin's army, I wondered, but with a black arrow? Even a single arrow gives me more hope than I had before.”

“But it is not just the arrow,” Tauriel spoke up, some of the hope fading from her face. “Even a black arrow needs the power of a Dwarven wind lance to find its mark. Perhaps one survives in Erebor?”

“There's one here,” Sigrid spoke up, drawing all eyes to her once more. She glanced at Bain, who was nodding eagerly. “In the middle of town, atop the tallest tower of the Master's manor house.”

Two Dwarves and an Elf stared at one another, a single thought passing unspoken between them.

_We have a chance._

* * *

 

Bilbo blamed his Took blood for getting him into this mess. It was the only explanation for a respectable Baggins leaving the Shire in the company of fifteen Dwarves and a wizard on a mad quest to reclaim a Mountain from a fire breathing dragon. Only, now that it came down to it, the wizard was gone who-knows-where doing who-knows-what, and the Dwarves were waiting on the doorstep while he, Bilbo Baggins, crept alone down the endless paths of Erebor toward the dragon's hoard. Balin had been with him for the first few turns, of course. The elder Dwarf had pointed out the clever signposts that were incorporated into the intricate carvings on the walls, guiding the way to the public areas of the Mountain. Once the burglar could pick out the pattern for the Great Hall, Balin had nodded and bid him farewell.

“From there, you'll be able to find him, I'm sure,” the white-haired councilor stated quietly, concern on his lined face. “Thrór was not one for subtlety – the Great Treasury is quite nearby, and I would imagine that the great beast will be difficult to miss. Just..if the dragon is alive...try not to wake it.”

Bilbo nodded, staring down the dark corridor ahead. “How will I know the Arkenstone?” he asked, a bit desperately. “Fíli said it was a glowing white gem? How does it glow?”

Balin shook his head. “No one knows, laddie, but you will recognize it when you see it. There is no gem like it, save in legend.” He stopped, meeting Bilbo's anxious gaze with his own faded eyes. Finally, he sighed and rested one hand on the Hobbit's shoulder. “You do not have to do this, Bilbo,” he murmured. Bilbo opened his mouth to argue and was waved to silence. “I know, you signed a contract, but this – this is beyond what anyone should expect of a burglar, much less a friend. You have already saved this Company twice over.”

Bilbo gave a weak chuckle. “With the mood that Thorin is in, do you think that wise? He is set on that Stone, Balin.”

His friend grimaced. “That he is, and that is one reason that I hesitate to send you for it. I do not like or trust this fixation that has been growing in him of late. Still, I will handle Thorin if I must. This is _your_ decision, Bilbo.”

The Hobbit stared at him, his mind working furiously. He blamed his Took blood for initially running out of the door of his _smial_ , but hadn't he been given opportunities to turn back? Elrond had offered to let him stay in Rivendell, and he had almost left just before the debacle with the Goblins in the Misty Mountains. Once he had found the ring – that strange, magical ring that grew heavier in his pocket with every mile – could he not have made his way back alone? Instead, he had stepped forward and promised Thorin his aid. Beorn would probably have let him stay, if asked, and had he not considered abandoning the Company in Mirkwood? Rivendell, Goblin Town, Beorn's, Mirkwood – the entire journey had been a series of opportunities for the Baggins blood to reassert its good sense and turn him toward home – opportunities that had gone unheeded or rejected. The words that he had spoken to the entire Company after Goblin Town echoed in his memory and he smiled gently at his companion.

“Then, if you leave it up to me, I will go forward,” he stated firmly, ignoring the little frisson of fear that curled up his spine. “I said I would do it, and I must at least try. I did not journey halfway across Middle Earth to turn my back on my friends with their goal, their _home_ , nearly within reach.”

For the second time that evening, he watched Balin's eyes fill with tears.

“Gandalf assured us that Hobbits were made of sturdier stuff than they looked,” the Dwarf stated, his grip on the burglar's shoulder tightening briefly before it dropped away. “But I am not certain that even he realized the depth of strength in you, Master Baggins. He will not recognize you when this is over.”

Bilbo mustered a final smile as he turned away. “Let us hope that it is not because there is little left of me to identify,” he muttered half to himself. Balin laughed, his final words drifting after the Hobbit on the breath of a whisper.

“ _Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi astû_ , _bâha-_ _ê_.”

 

And so Bilbo was alone, creeping invisible on silent feet through a vast kingdom of ghosts, until finally he stood in a doorway and gazed into the Great Treasury of Erebor. It had been easy to find, once he had reached the Great Hall, for the gold shone even in the darkness of the Dwarf kingdom. It seemed lit by an eerie red-gold glow that came from the depths of the massive chamber, a glow like, and yet unlike, the flicker of flames.

 _It is the fire of the dragon_ , some buried instinct in the Hobbit's mind spoke up, sending ice through his veins. _Such beasts burn so long as they live, and Smaug is alive, indeed. He sleeps, else I would already be a pile of ash._

Setting the torch aside and playing absently with the golden ring, (ignoring the seductive, sibilant whispers that slithered through his mind in the thing's very presence of late) the little burglar stared at the vast wealth before him, wondering how he would ever find even an enchanted, glowing gem. For the Treasury of Erebor was nothing like he had expected. His family was wealthy, as things were reckoned in the Shire, but Hobbits were not given to hoarding gold, and the vast lake of coin and gems that stretched out before him was beyond anything he could have imagined.

The entire floor of the Treasury was covered, nearly to the depth of the landing where he stood. Judging by the regular intervals of the stairs he had so far traversed, that meant that it would be roughly to his waist, if he were able to actually stand on the stone floor, and there were drifts of greater height throughout the chamber. Gold and silver made up the greater part of what lay before him, in the form of coins and statues, with gems scattered here and there like stars in the night sky. Even in the dim light, it was breathtaking.

And the source of the fiery glow lay in the very center of the room, a vast, scaled bulk coiled within a nest hollowed from a great mound of the treasure. Smaug slept, the great fires of his belly banked in rest, though smoke streamed from his nostrils with every breath. Bilbo choked back a whimper as he stared at the great beast, hidden from its sight by his own treasure (and when had the ring gotten so very _heavy_?).

 _It is asleep. The dragon sleeps. Never again will you have so clear a chance as this, Bilbo Baggins_ , he told himself silently, digging deep for the tiny core of courage that had served him well before. _You have argued with Trolls, riddled with a twisted once-Hobbit in the depths of the Misty Mountains, charged an Orc with only your tiny sword. You have made friends with Dwarves, Elves, Eagles, a wizard, and a skin-changer, and now the Dwarves need your help. One gem, that is all that they ask. Recover a single, precious jewel from this vast hoard, and they will be able to reclaim their homeland._

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and sent a brief prayer to any of the Valar that might be listening. When he opened his eyes again, there was a steely glint in the burglar's gaze and a firm set to his shoulders. Settling the ring on his finger, he descended the last few steps to the surface of the gold and moved carefully out across the lake of treasure.

He was nearly to the middle when the dragon woke.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Shosh – hush, shush
> 
> Khazâd ai-mênu! – The Dwarves are upon you! (a battle cry of Durin's folk)
> 
> Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi astû, bâha-ê – May Mahal's hammer shield you, my friend


	25. Home, A Song That Echoes On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you recognize it, I don't own it.
> 
> As always, comments/reviews are extremely welcome!

Kíli sat on cool grass, leaning back so his head rested against the side of the Mountain and he was able to stare up at the night sky. The moon had set, so it was lit now only by the stars, diamonds scattered on the velvet curtain of darkness. He had always found starlight to be remote, cold and distant, mere pinpricks of light that fell far short of the warming embrace of the sun, or the soothing glow of the moon. Still, he had spent many a long night in Ered Luin staring up at them, picking out the patterns and competing with his brother to see which of them could make up the best new tales to go with the old legends. It had been a comfort through the months of the journey to see that the friends of his childhood traveled with them, even if they had shifted somewhat from their accustomed places as Ered Luin fell farther and farther behind. By this point, the _that_ _û_ _r_ _bun_ _û_ _hu_ had changed their places rather significantly, and it took him a moment to find the first. It seemed appropriate that the one he found was the Mountain Home, a pattern that had rarely been visible in the Blue Mountains. He smiled slightly, his gaze darting across the sky to pick out the Hunter and the Hound, the Hammer and Anvil, the Eagle and the Great Cat. Glimpsing the Drake hovering low over the Long Lake gave him an unpleasant chill that shook him out of his reverie. It was only then that he became aware of the song.

Their voices were low, vibrating deep in their chests as the descendants of Durin hummed the Song of the Mountain. Sitting up quickly, the archer glanced over to see them standing in a cluster at the side of the ledge – Thorin, Balin, Óin, Dwalin, Glóin, even Dori, each with a hand on the stone. Nori was watching them with a sense of awe, while Ori was confused. Fíli seemed lost in his own thoughts, gazing out over the lake toward distant Esgaroth. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur had withdrawn slightly, giving the returned Exiles a respectful distance. Kíli gave Ori a questioning look, but the young scribe simply shrugged and shook his head. Nori's hands flashed in quick iglishmêk that brought the dark-haired prince to his feet, reaching for his brother's shoulder.

_They touched the Mountain and now it welcomes them home._

“Fi.”

The golden-haired swordsman startled under his hand, Fíli's eyes taking a moment to focus as he met Kíli's gaze.

“What's wrong?”

The younger prince hesitated. “I don't think anything's wrong, but I don't know what is going on....” His explanation trailed off and he stepped back so his brother could see their kin. His eyes narrowed slightly as the elder scrambled to his feet.

“What is happening? Are they bespelled?”  
  
Nori was shaking his head sharply, making calming motions toward the princes, and Kíli gave the thief a quick nod of acknowledgment as he caught his brother's arm.

“Easy, Fi. Give it a moment. Nori says they are alright. He says that the Mountain is welcoming them home.”

He met the Crown Prince's gaze, remembering how Thorin had leaned into contact with the Mountain after he had opened the hidden door. Fíli's brow furrowed and his eyes flickered briefly to their cousins and uncle before they widened in recognition.

“The Song,” he breathed. “They're humming the Song of the Mountain.”

The deep tones and steady rhythms were unmistakable, resonating bone-deep in the younger Dwarves. Blue eyes met brown, and thoughts flew between the two without word or gesture. Turning as one, they reached out to the Mountain, putting flesh to stone.

The cool skin of the Mountain was cool under Kíli's hand, thrumming with an energy that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat, a fleeting warm wash of sensation that was recognition and welcome. He heard Fíli hiss with surprise, saw the hand next to his flatten against the stone as a strong sense of “home” swept over him. He turned to stare at his brother, only to find the golden prince already gazing at him, his eyes slightly unfocused.

“Do you feel it, Ki?”

Kíli nodded and turned back to stare at the stone in wonder. “It's like....”

“Like the Mountain is welcoming us home,” Fíli murmured. “Like _Amad's_ tales. D'you remember? She used to say that Erebor always greeted the heirs of Durin.”

The archer was trying desperately to calm his thoughts, his mind a whirlwind of memory and emotion.

“I always thought it was just a story that her brothers had told her,” he whispered. “Or something she imagined. She was very young when the dragon came.”

“So did I, but this is real, _nadadith_.”

Kíli closed his eyes, savoring the waves of belonging that swept through him. When he opened them again, he smiled at his brother. “She is _home_. _Our_ home. I never truly believed it, never felt it, until now. I wanted to help with the quest, to regain our people's homeland, for _Amad_ , and Thorin, and the rest of the Exiles. But this...I never expected this.”

Fíli was still, a look of deep concentration on his face as he focused on the impressions he was receiving from the stone. “She has been so alone,” he whispered, bringing his other palm to the surface absently. “She still mourns those lost when Smaug came....”

Kíli stared at his brother as tears trickled down Fíli's face, sorrow for those dead before they were born. The younger prince felt a dim echo of the Mountain's grief, but Fíli seemed almost overwhelmed by it. The archer reached for the swordsman with his free hand, closing it over the nearest wrist. The sensations swept over him, stronger and more immediate, but the solid presence of the Crown Prince held him steady.

“Fi?”  
  
“Isn't it amazing, Ki? Can you feel it?”  
  
Kíli nodded, sorting through the images and feelings that he was receiving.

“She sings. The Line of Durin is returned, and Erebor sings with joy!” Fíli smiled through his tears, laughing shakily. Kíli grinned, then gasped as new information filled his mind.

“Bilbo has reached the hoard.” He turned to his brother as the elder prince went pale. “Smaug lives.”

A gentle hand on Kíli's shoulder tugged him gently out of his communion with the stone and he turned to see Balin shaking his head with a small rueful smile.

“Could not wait, could you, lads?” the elder Dwarf asked rhetorically. “We were going to explain before you jumped in feet first, but no harm done. The Mountain was never overly concerned with ceremony – she almost seemed amused with the pomp and solemnity of the Presentations when we were Dwarflings.” He studied them closely for a long moment, then nodded. “So, now you know the secret of the Mountain,” he stated quietly. “She has welcomed you, and you have felt the echoes of her sorrow. So it is always with the Sons of Durin. She will always welcome you home, and she will always be your strength when other sources fail. The Lonely Mountain sings for the Line of Durin.”

“Why now?” Fíli asked. “We touched the stone of the Mountain almost constantly during the climb, why is she only now singing?”

“She is waking, lad,” Balin replied. “She has been asleep all these long years, with no company but Smaug. She did not begin to wake until Thorin opened the door. So it was when Thrór led our folk back from _Zeleg'ubrazul_ in the Grey Mountains, after his father and brother fell to the cold drake. My great-grandfather Borin, Thrór's uncle, wrote that Erebor woke to greet them when the King Under the Mountain opened the Great Gate and returned to his rightful place.” Faded blue eyes turned to Thorin, who had returned to his silent vigil at the hidden door. “And so has the king returned once more.”

* * *

 

In the depths of the Lonely Mountain, far from the chill breeze and starlit heights, Bilbo trembled under the fiery gaze of the dragon. He still wore his ring, the gold band hiding him from the creature's sight, but he felt exposed and vulnerable nonetheless. Smaug was massive, awe-inspiring, and terrifying, and the Hobbit was not certain that he would ever be able to move. He was frozen with terror as the great head lifted and swung side-to-side, the nostrils flaring with every breath.

“I know you are there, thief.”

Bilbo closed his eyes and stifled a pitiful moan. It spoke. No one had ever warned him that the dragon could speak. The serpent's voice was a throaty rasp, with a hint of a hiss, arrogant and strangely beguiling.

“Why do you hide? A strange mixture of boldness and timidity, even for a thief. You walk into my home while I am in residence, but you will not show your face? I was aware of you the moment you set foot on my gold, hidden burglar...but then, I was expecting you.”

“Expecting me?”

The Hobbit couldn't help himself – the question tumbled from his lips without conscious thought, ending with an embarrassing squeak. Smaug's head swung toward him and he darted behind a mounded pile of treasure.

“Well, I was expecting Oakenshield,” the dragon admitted, his tone smug. “But I should have known that the coward would send someone else in to do his dirty work.” The nostrils flared again and a note of puzzlement entered the beast's voice. “What are you, exactly, thief in the shadows? I know the smell of Dwarf, Man, and Elf, but you are none of these. Who, and what, are you, who seeks to enter my home and steal my treasure?”

Bilbo hesitated, his thought whirling furiously. The longer he could keep the dragon talking, the longer he could put off being incinerated, but he would be foolish to give his name. Smaug's knowledge of Thorin's quest was deeply disturbing, and he was beginning to feel that Gandalf had not been the only great power guiding the events of the past few months. The urge to return to his companions with a warning was nearly overpowering.

“I am a race apart,” he replied, the words coming into his head unbidden. “I am the hidden ally, the fly that stings the spider, Riddle-Maker, and Barrel-Rider. My home is under hill, and I have traveled far and faced many dangers to bear witness to the majesty that is Smaug the Terrible. I doubted the tales, you see. Surely they were exaggeration – for no beast, not even a dragon, could possibly be so splendid, so magnificent, so terrifying. I had to see for myself, and so I crossed the wild lands of Middle Earth to do so.”

“And what have you learned, now that you have seen me?” the beast almost purred, rising to settle on his haunches and stretch proudly. “Do they exaggerate?”

Bilbo gulped, remembering Bofur's cheerily morbid description in Bag End so long ago. “In truth, the tales fall utterly short,” he admitted, staring at the dragon's golden underbelly. Like the crimson back of the beast, it was armored with huge, thick scales...save for a small patch of exposed skin near the left foreleg. A scale was missing. The point of vulnerability was small, miniscule on the great beast, but it was something. It was a target.

Smaug settled back into a crouch, his fiery gaze searching the cavern. A twitch of his tail dislodged a small avalanche of gold and jewels. One of them came to rest near the dragon's great claw, and Bilbo nearly gave away his location with a choked gasp, for it _glowed_.

Fíli had said it was white, but again, the description fell short, for the heart of the Arkenstone held every color the Hobbit had ever seen, and some that he had never imagined. It called to him silently, even as something about it repelled him. He had no affinity for metal and jewels, not like his sense of the green growing things in the Shire, but like Mirkwood, the Stone felt sick, twisted, _wrong_.

This _is the great treasure of the Dwarves?_ He thought, concern and fear coursing through him. This _is what calls Thorin so strongly?_ His conversation with Balin came to mind, and he remembered the worried look on the old Dwarf's face. _This is what Balin fears_ , he realized. _He knows that there is something wrong with the Stone, but he also knows that it is needed for Erebor to be reclaimed, and he worries for Thorin._ The dream from Laketown came back full force, bringing the memory of the overheard conversation in Rivendell. _Gandalf meant to be here_ , he realized. _He meant to warn Thorin before we entered the Mountain, but he was delayed, and we could not wait. So now it is down to me, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, to serve both king and wizard. I must retrieve the Arkenstone, but I cannot_ _hand it over to Thorin...not until I understand what it is, what it will do._

“I feel your gaze, thief in the shadows.”

The dragon's voice startled Bilbo badly, recalling him to his present predicament, and he stumbled backward, slipping on gold as he tried frantically to keep his footing. He finally managed to duck behind a green marble column and stood there for a long moment, catching his breath, before he peeked out again.

Smaug had not moved. He was staring at the Arkenstone, and the Hobbit suddenly realized how expressive the reptilian face could be, for it was suffused with greed. “The Stone calls to him,” came the sibilant murmur. “Almost, I am tempted to let you take it, to stay my vengeance and let you hand it to Oakenshield, just to watch it destroy him.”

“Your vengeance?” the Hobbit countered, thinking quickly. “Why do you believe that you have the right to vengeance? You took Erebor, slaying those that lived here. You stole the Arkenstone from its rightful owners. What right have you to vengeance?”

The golden eyes narrowed with fury and the huge nostrils flared as Smaug turned toward the taunting voice. Bilbo was already moving, creeping through the shifting gold as the dragon moved his massive bulk.

“I serve the true master of the Arkenstone!” the beast bellowed, the great fire in his belly roaring to life. “Long ago, my kind were created by our Dark Lord, and when he was cast into the Void, we submitted to his servant, who then became the master. It was his slaves that found the Stone, he who recognized its value and power. It was taken from him, hidden in the depths of the earth, until the Dwarves found it once more. And when its voice was freed, when its song called out, I was the first to answer, the first to reclaim it and hold it against the day when he might return.”

Bilbo was moving toward the exit, anxious to get away from the dragon, to feel fresh air on his face and warn his friends that they were woefully out of their depth. He understood little of the dragon's raging, but he was clear on one thing. Something bigger was at work here – something far beyond a simple burglar, or even an exiled king.

* * *

 

Trisk, Viska, and Tauriel had just finished rolling the last Orc corpse into the lake when a distant rumble sent fear coursing through the Dwarrowlass. She turned to stare toward the Lonely Mountain, her hand going automatically to the silver clasp in her pocket. Trisk stiffened next to her as Tauriel let out a string of unfamiliar words that were obviously curses. Sharing a nervous glance, the three unlikely allies hurried back up the stairs into Bard's house, where they found Sigrid ordering her siblings in frantic activity. She glanced up when the Dwarves and Elf came in, her mask of confidence slipping slightly.

“It's the dragon, isn't it?” she asked quietly. “He is coming for us.”

Viska hesitated, but Tauriel shook her head.

“It is the dragon, but I do not know what he will do. Perhaps he is simply stirring, rather than fully waking.”

“Best not to take a chance,” Trisk countered grimly. Viska nodded, and Tauriel did the same with a grimace.

“I have Bain and Tilda gathering food and spare clothing,” the girl murmured. “If you will make sure that they get out of Laketown, I will find Da.”

“You'll do no such thing,” Trisk snapped, seizing her arm as she started for the door. “Your father will have heard that, and will be on his way home. He would not want you roaming through town in search of him. He would want you to get your siblings ready to get to safety. Viska and I promised him that we would do whatever we could to protect all three of you, and we can only do that if you stay together.”

Sigrid hesitated, clearly torn between her duty to her siblings and her desire to have her father there to protect them. Tauriel placed a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Load your father's boat,” she told her quietly. “Prepare your brother and sister to leave if it is needed. We will keep watch.”

* * *

 

A rumble from within the Mountain woke Kíli from a patchy doze and sent him lurching to his feet. His brother caught his arm and steadied him, blue gaze fixed on the secret door as the younger prince blinked and looked around.

“What was that?”

Balin shook his head, aged face creased with concern and grief.

“That, my lads, was a dragon.”

“Smaug's awake,” Fíli growled, his fist clenching on the hilt of the long knife at his hip. Kíli felt terror leap in his heart as he turned his gaze to the door into the Mountain, half-expecting to see the great lizard on the other side.

“But...where's Bilbo?”

“Still inside,” Óin replied sadly. “The burglar hasn't returned.”

“We have to help him!”

The dark-haired prince had taken three steps toward the door before he even realized that he was moving, dragging an unresisting Fíli at his side. Then Thorin was blocking the way, a dark glower on his face.

“Give him more time.”

“Time?” Balin demanded incredulously. “Time to do what? Be killed?”

The shadowed eyes searched his face. “You're afraid,” Thorin accused. Balin flinched, then straightened his back. Kíli could only gape at his uncle in disbelief, while his brother stared with narrowed eyes.

“Yes, I am. I fear for you,” he threw back. Rarely had Kíli ever heard his old tutor so openly angry. “You are losing yourself, Thorin. I do not know whether it is the Mountain, or the treasure hoard, or the Arkenstone itself, but something has changed you. You grow more like your grandfather every day.”

Fury filled Thorin's face. “I am _not_ my grandfather.”

“Well, you're not yourself!” his old friend countered. “The Thorin I know, my cousin, my _king_ , would never hesitate to-”

“I will not risk this quest for the life of one burglar.”

“ _Bilbo_ ,” Fíli spoke up, meeting his uncle's dark look without blinking. “His name is Bilbo, and he has saved your life – all of our lives – again and again since we descended on his home with no warning and little explanation! The least we owe him is to try and help him!”

“This is what he was hired to do.”

Kíli stared at his uncle and brother, toe to toe, neither flinching or giving an inch. Despite the golden locks, the fire of their mother's line shone in Fíli's unwavering gaze, his set jaw. Never had the archer seen him so clearly as the Crown Prince. Around them, the rest of the Company had stopped breathing, watching the royal confrontation. And into this silence lurched Bilbo himself, wheezing for air and wild-eyed.

“Smaug is alive,” he gasped out, clutching at the side of the entrance to steady himself. Thorin whirled to face him, the dark look never leaving his face.

“Do you have the Stone?”

“Thorin!” Balin protested. “Now is not the time!”

“Now is the perfect time,” the king growled back. “He has obviously disturbed the beast. Has he brought what he was sent for, or has he squandered our one chance to reclaim what is ours?”

Bofur was at Bilbo's side, steadying the Hobbit as Óin pushed a water skin into his hand. Kíli hung back, unsure what to do. He was glad to see Bilbo alive, and upset at his uncle's preoccupation with the Arkenstone, but he did not know what to do, how to help. At a loss, he hovered on the edge of the Company, watching Fíli watch Thorin with eyes blue as a forge flame. The burglar gulped some water, then pushed the helping hands aside, shaking his head frantically.

“We can't stay here!” he insisted, shoving Bofur toward the door. “Smaug is awake, and he was expecting us! He is stirring, leaving the Mountain. We cannot stay here!”

Clearly, Fíli had heard enough. When his uncle remained unmoving, the golden-haired prince turned to the others, giving quick orders to move everything inside the door. They obeyed without hesitation, even Dwalin, and Thorin eventually joined the flurry of activity. Within a few minutes, everything was inside the dark passageway. Kíli loitered with his brother near the door, anxiety bubbling in his stomach until he reached out to the Mountain. He relaxed incrementally as the soothing rhythm of her welcome surged through his bones. He distracted himself by sorting through the information that flowed into his mind from the connection.

“The dragon is leaving!”

Dwalin's voice cut through the voice of the Mountain, pulling the prince back to the here and now. He stepped away from the stone, turning to the warrior, who stood watch at the door. Thorin was lost in thought, staring down the dark passageway, and seemed not to have heard. Kíli blinked, trying to clear his mind, disoriented by the fact that the Arms Master had echoed the last thing that the Mountain had told him.

“Leaving?” Fíli asked blankly. “Smaug is leaving?” Panic flared in his face and he ran forward, brushing by the big Dwarf and out into the open air of the hidden bay. Kíli followed, a sudden dread filling his heart. A vast winged shape was moving away from the Lonely Mountain, bellowing in anger as it flew. Fíli turned to him with stricken eyes.

“Laketown,” he murmured. Kíli's heart froze. “He flies for Laketown.”

* * *

 

They had just finished loading the boat when a hoarse, shrieking cry broke from the distant sky, startling Tilda into a scream. Trisk swore creatively in Khuzdul, bundling the child onto the boat before she had a chance to resist. Sigrid turned to Viska with wide eyes, taking in the hunting knife that had appeared in the Dwarrowmaid's hand without conscious thought. The lass nodded grimly and jerked her head in the direction of the boat.

“Sigrid, give Trisk the arrow,” she ordered. “Tauriel, take the children and get them out of here. We will find Bard and get him to the wind lance.”

The flame-haired Elf hesitated as Bain protested indignantly. Trisk was already collecting the metal shaft, setting it aside just long enough to hand a trembling Walnut to little Tilda and wrap a blanket around them.

“I can move faster,” Tauriel argued. Viska snorted.

“Perhaps, but we cannot keep Bain in the boat against his will, and Bard knows us,” she replied with a small smile. “Please, Tauriel. We promised to help protect them, and this is the best way. If our people woke the beast, it is our duty to try and bring it down.”

 

The world was full of fire and smoke as the two young Dwarves darted through the streets of Laketown, calling for Bard. Viska despaired of ever finding him – how could he hear them over the screams of the Lakemen, the crackle of the flames?

“Triskel? Viska? Where are my children?”  
They skidded to a halt as the tall bowman appeared in front of them, his face angry and desperate.

“They are on their way across the lake,” Trisk answered quickly, holding the black arrow out to the Man. “A Captain of the Mirkwood guard is with them, she will protect them with her life.”

Disbelief filled Bard's face as he accepted the arrow. “How did you find this?”

Viska gave small laugh. “Sigrid has always known where it hung,” she replied shortly, deciding that the anxious father did not need to know about the Orcs just yet. One fear at a time. “She said the wind lance was on the top of the Master's manor house?”  
He nodded slowly and Trisk swore again, giving the Man a shove. “Well, don't just stand there! Let's go! The tower won't stand forever with Smaug pouring fire down on the town!”

The dark eyes cleared and determination firmed Bard's jaw as he nodded to them. His gaze lingered on Viska, and his next words were directed to her.

“Go. Get to safety. I will deal with the dragon.”

“ _Dehersu zirin kall_ ,” Trisk murmured. “That argument is already lost, my friend, and we do not have time. We will _all_ deal with the dragon.”

 

The door of the Master's manor house stood open and unguarded, and there was no one in evidence as Bard and the Dwarves slipped inside. A commotion of sound on the lower level made it clear where everyone was, and Trisk sent the Man an inquisitive glance. Bard looked disgusted.

“The treasury is down there, and the Master's private boat. He must be trying to escape with whatever he can carry while the town burns around him,” he told them, leading the way up the first flight of stairs. The siblings followed him, their heavy boots loud on the wooden steps. The fifth flight brought them up against a locked door. Bard backed up to charge it, only to have Trisk brush him out of the way and put all of his weight behind a blow from his foot. The lock burst, the door flying open to let the chill night air pour over their heated faces. They stumbled out onto the top floor of the tower, stepping into a nightmare scene of fire and destruction.

Laketown was burning, and Smaug the Terrible crouched nearby, his weight distributed among several buildings. The crimson and gold scales shone in the light of the deadly fires, and the dragon was speaking.

“Burn in fire, choke on ash,” he purred sadistically. “The Men of the Lake, Oakenshield and his companions. A night of death in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain.”

“NO!!”

Viska was moving before she knew it, her throat burning with the force of her scream as Trisk lunged for her. He missed, but she came up against the railing of the tower, barely aware that Bard was crouched next to the wind lance, shoving the arrow into place as the dragon turned golden eyes on them.

“And who is this?” he purred, his head sinking between his shoulder blades, serpentine tail twitching like a massive hunting cat. “More Dwarves? And a would-be dragon-slayer, I see. You will learn, as the Lord of Dale learned, that even a black arrow is no match for my scales and hide.”

Bard stood and took his place behind the wind lance, his grim face set and proud. Smaug's eyes widened as he got his first glimpse of the arrow.

“Ah, but the tales tell that not all of Girion's arrows missed,” the bargeman countered. Viska felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and turned tear-filled eyes to her brother's face.

“You still have the Troll-blade?” he hissed, keeping his gaze on the dragon. Instead of answering, the lass slipped the knife from the sheath at the small of her back and tucked it into his hand. He nodded and pressed a kiss to her temple, then moved away, the hand holding the knife dangling casually at his side. The Dwarrowmaid drew Fíli's hunting knife, planting her feet as her brother moved to Bard's other side. The dragon's gaze followed him and Viska growled low in her throat.

“Over here, _gozig_ _'_ _urs_!” she yelled abruptly. “I am your enemy, if you have slain those I love!”

The massive head swung toward her, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Trisk's arm move in a smooth, overhand throwing motion. A glint of metal sped through the air, striking one of the slit-pupil eyes.

Smaug went mad, fire spilling from his maw as he reared back, shaking his head furiously. The two Dwarves converged on the wind lance as Bard set his aim. The beast's recoil had exposed his chest, and the truth of the tale of Girion was there for all to see – an exposed patch of hide on the dragon's breast. Chill fingers closed on hers and she took her brother's hand in a fierce grip as the weapon released, flinging the metal arrow through the air with the speed of thought.

It was almost anticlimactic. The black arrow slammed home, burying itself in the thick hide of the beast's chest, tearing through muscle to the hidden heart. Smaug lurched, his undamaged eye widening in surprise. The fire deep within him roared fierce and hot, and fear surged up in the Dwarrowlass as the dragon's head swung down toward them, an inferno boiling behind the razor-sharp teeth. Bard was yelling a warning, and Trisk was shoving her toward the stairs as the very air began to burn around them. Then the tower was collapsing beneath them and her world was full of fire and pain.

* * *

 

On the shore of the Long Lake, Tauriel watched the dragon fall, taking with it the tower that Sigrid had indicated as the location of the Dwarven wind lance. Fortunately, Sigrid and Bain were busy helping other refugees, the boy giving assistance to those who were struggling in from the water and the girl tending injuries. Tilda was still bundled in the blanket Trisk had wrapped around her, dozing on the ground nearby, Walnut snoring in her lap. The Elf-maid shot her a glance, then turned back to the fire that consumed the remains of the town. She had seen them before the tower fell, three distinct figures running for the stairs as Smaug unleashed his final firestorm. Tauriel watched as the massive bulk of the dragon slipped into the depths of the lake, a tear trickling down her ageless face as she offered a prayer to Elbereth, Lady of the Stars, that her friends had not met the same fate.

* * *

High on the side of the Lonely Mountain, a mostly-silent Company stared in horror as Laketown burned. After a single bellow of denial, their golden-haired prince had dropped at the edge of the hidden bay. There he remained, his dark-haired shadow crouched at his side, and no one else dared approach. Instead, they huddled in tight family groups, seeking comfort on a night of fire and death.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> thatûr bunûhu – patterns of the stars (constellations)  
> Zeleg'ubrazul – “Golden Stair,” the citadel of the Longbeards in the Grey Mountains where Durin's folk lived for a time.  
> Dehersu zirin kall – “You are striking cold iron,” an expression much like “you are beating a dead horse,” implying that there is nothing more to be done, a decision has been made.  
> gozig 'urs – fire drake


	26. Fate Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of warning – there is a brief description of a rather horrific wound in this chapter. As usual, please forgive any errors in the Khuzdul syntax and usage.
> 
> In advance, I am so, so sorry....

_They are twin shadows of grief, silhouetted against the dim, distant glow of the inferno that has engulfed Laketown. Kneeling in the chilled grass, they are almost of a height – the elder curled around the aching loss in his heart and the younger curled around the elder, trying desperately to hold him back from the edge of despair. Throughout their lives, they have been one another's support, stronger together than apart, but this loss is one that the younger cannot share. He can mourn those who have become like siblings, admired and beloved, but it is not the same. He has no words that can ease the pain, no power that will change the past, and so he simply holds on. He is the only one that has dared approach, the one that will never stand aside. Support is all that he can offer, along with desperate prayers to the Valar, and so he gives both with all of his heart._

_Mahal, Creator,_ _and_ _Kaminzabdûna, Giver of Grains – guide us and help us to endure._

_Usahu, Lord of Waters – protect them from the firestorm._

_Kidzulzanât, Valiant Warrior, and Asranulmadtûna, Dancing Heart – let not his joy turn to ashes._

_Udmas, Lord of the Dead, and Bebanuknar, Ever-Weaving – take them not to your halls, but continue to weave them into the Great Tapestry._

_Sulladad, Father of All – bring them home, that they may play their part in your great design._

_Manakhkhashûna, Lady of Sorrow – if they must be lost, grant us your council in turning sorrow to strength, grief to wisdom._

* * *

 

 

It was the darkest part of the night, and Tauriel stood guard over the exhausted survivors of Laketown as they seized what rest they could before sunrise. There had been no sign of the dragon-slayers, and she had had a hard time convincing Bain to wait for morning before he sought sign of his father. Sigrid had helped, speaking to her brother in low tones until he reluctantly settled next to little Tilda, but there was a fire in the young Woman's eyes that told the Elf Captain that Bain would not be alone in his search. Both of them had finally joined their sister in slumber, huddled together beneath the blankets that they had managed to bring, and it made Tauriel's heart ache to see the innocence in their faces as they drifted away in dreams. They were so very young. So, too, were her missing Dwarven friends, but at least these she could protect.

She knew he was there long before he spoke, but she stood in silence as he gazed grimly out across the smoldering ruin of Esgaroth.

“Who brought down the dragon?” he finally asked, his voice quiet as he moved to stand beside her. The fire-haired she-Elf glanced briefly at her prince, then turned her gaze to the sleeping children of Men.

“Their father,” she replied. “And the young Dwarves. They took the black arrow to him when the dragon came, and helped him get it to the wind lance above the Master's manor house.” She paused, turning her eyes once more to the lake. “The beast took the tower in his death throes. There has been no sign of any of them since.”

She sensed rather than saw the golden-haired prince's nod, then the crunch of a footstep had her moving to confront whatever new threat drew near. Legolas was at her side, arrow nocked, as she drew her knives. The approaching figure was a Man, staggering and weary, wrapped in a blanket, favoring his left leg and cradling his left arm close to his side. He was soaked and shivering, posing little threat to the two armed Elves, but Tauriel stepped between him and the children and challenged him in a low voice.

“Who are you? What do you seek?”

The figure halted, holding both hands out to show that he was unarmed. His dark eyes were anxious. “I seek my children, Lady Elf,” he answered quietly. “I was told that they escaped the fires in the company of a Captain of the Mirkwood guard. Are you she?”

Before the Elf-maid could reply, a small, sleepy voice spoke up.

“Da?”

“Tilda!”

Tauriel motioned quickly to her companion as the Man lurched forward, all of his attention on the three youngsters stirring under their blankets. Legolas lowered his bow and the two Firstborn stepped back to allow the family some privacy as Bard gathered his children into his arms, trying to hug all of them at once. Bain was pounding his father on the back joyfully, as Tilda sobbed into his shoulder and Sigrid smiled through her tears. Walnut bounded at their feet, yapping excitedly until Tauriel scooped the little furry bundle into her own arms and soothed her with quiet words and gentle scratches. After a few minutes of the muffled reunion, she glanced up at the sound of her own name.

“Da, this is Tauriel, of the Woodland Realm,” Sigrid told him, stepping back to wave the Elf forward. Tauriel nodded graciously, surprised by the bow that the Lakeman offered her. “She helped save us from the Orcs, then made sure we escaped the dragon while Trisk and Viska came to find you.”

The red-haired Elf wondered if she was the only one to catch the tiny flinch at the mention of the two young Dwarves. Her heart sank.

“I owe you a great debt, Lady Tauriel,” the Man murmured, then straightened abruptly as Sigrid's words sank in. “Orcs?” he demanded. Before anyone could answer the clear question, Bain broke in.

“Da? Where are they? Where are Trisk and Viska? Didn't they find you? They brought you the black arrow, didn't they?”

Bard took a deep breath, his arm tightening around Tilda as she stared up at him, wide-eyed. His gaze found Tauriel's, full of grief.

“We slew the dragon. Trisk blinded him in one eye, and Viska distracted him, and I was able to fire the black arrow. But then the tower fell...and I could not find them....”

Sigrid gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth, and Bain's already pale face was ghostly in the dim light of the fading fires. Tauriel closed her eyes for a bare moment, allowing the sorrow to well within her before suppressing it once more. The danger had not ended with the death of the dragon.

“This is Legolas Thranduilion,” she offered, not bothering to explain the meaning of the honorific, though she could see Bard's eyes narrow as he recognized the king's name. “He helped kill the Orcs that made their way into Laketown, then pursued their fellows. He has word of their movements.”

Legolas shot her a bemused look, but did not argue, simply nodding to the Man gravely.

“I recognized their leader,” he explained. “A massive, pale Orc – Bolg, spawn of Azog the Defiler. They are from Gundabad, the great Orc fortress to the north, and they fled in that direction. I fear that they may be seeking reinforcements. Azog has a great feud with the Dwarves of Durin's line, Oakenshield chief among them.” He glanced at Tauriel, a question in his brilliant blue eyes. “I would ride north when the sun rises,” he told her. “We must know what passes at Gundabad.”

She hesitated a moment, but nodded. “When the sun rises,” she agreed quietly, turning to gaze once more out at the surface of the lake.

* * *

 

 

Fíli could not breathe. Mahal had turned him back to stone, silent and unmoving, for his failure. Her name was an endless litany in his head – had he been able to speak, it would have burst his throat.

Laketown was burning. Smaug had fallen, but the town on the Long Lake burned unabated – the parts that had not been crushed beneath the dragon's great bulk.

Laketown was burning, and with it those who had aided the Company, from the groveling Master to the sweet-faced Tilda and her siblings.

Laketown was burning, and with it, whoever had brought the beast low, freeing Erebor.  
  
Laketown was burning, and with it, his beloved, his One, Viska, daughter of Kulvik, left behind with her brother in attempt to protect her from the very fate she now suffered.

“ _Fíli...nadad,_ _isbir-_ _e_ _. Fíli,_ _i_ _nnikh dê._ _K_ _asamhili,_ _nadad, isbir-_ _e_ _. Fíli,_ _k_ _asamhili..._ _asamhili...i_ _nnikh dê._ ”

The words came from an unfathomable distance, seeping gradually into his conscious mind and bringing with them a painful awareness of the outside world. Kíli was at his side, both arms wrapped tightly around his brother's shoulders, face buried in his hair, pleading for a reply, tears tracking through the dirt on his face. Following the sound of his brother's voice, Fíli came back to himself slowly, realizing that he was not stone. But, oh, how he wished he was, for surely stone could not suffer. If he were stone, he would not feel as though his heart had been wrenched from his chest. He would not feel as though his soul had been torn asunder, his very spirit bleeding. But he was flesh, warm and alive, and in so much pain. He was on his knees, the uneven ground bruising through his trousers, hands clenched in front of him, the knuckles bruised and scraped and bloodless. His throat was on fire, and when he tried to speak, all that emerged was a hoarse whisper.

“Ki?”  
  
The raven-haired prince gasped in relief and his grip tightened. “I'm here, Fíli,” he murmured. “I'm here, brother. We will go to Laketown and find her, I swear it. Do not give up hope. Perhaps she fled.”

“How could she? How much warning could they have had?”

That was Glóin, sounding less pleased with his habitual pessimism than Fíli ever remembered hearing. Someone else hushed the burly merchant, then Bilbo was on Fíli's other side, the burglar's face stricken and sorrowful.

“We have to help them,” the Halfling muttered, turning tear-filled eyes to the princes. “We brought this on them, we have to help.”

“The dragon is dead. Our kingdom is ours once more. It is time to find the Arkenstone.”

Thorin's gruff voice cut through the Company and Fíli thought those nearest him had simply stopped breathing. Kíli turned to stare at his uncle with wide dark eyes.

“The people of Laketown need our help!”

“And why should I care about Men? We came to take Erebor back from Smaug, and he is dead.”

“Thanks to the Lakemen!” Bilbo interjected.

Thorin ignored him, fixing his steely gaze on his nephews. “I would have my heirs by my side when I enter the Mountain as king.”

Fíli opened his mouth to argue, but a hand clamped down on his arm. “Go with him, laddie. We'll send someone to Laketown. Do not unsettle him more than he already is,” Balin murmured. Dís's elder son stared into his uncle's eyes, disturbed by the shadow that lurked there, and finally nodded and got to his feet.

“We will be at your side, Thorin,” he whispered, gripping Kíli's arm tightly to prevent his brother arguing. “Leave it, Kíli. Our place is by our king. I have failed my One. I will not fail my people as well.”

* * *

 

 

Bofur felt hollowed out as he watched Fíli and Kíli approach their uncle, weighed down by the demanding darkness in Thorin's gaze. The miner had a gentle heart and cheery disposition, only matched by the joyous spirits of the youngest of the Company. To see them so beaten, bowed by grief they were not permitted to express, wrenched his soul. He hadn't heard what Balin had said to the elder, but he had a good idea. He stepped up to the king's councilor as soon as Thorin turned to lead his heirs back toward the Mountain.

“Bifur 'n I'll head back to Laketown, see if we can't at least find the lass 'n her brother,” he volunteered. Balin nodded, troubled eyes never leaving Thorin.

“Bring them back to Erebor, no matter what you find,” the elder Dwarf replied. “Fíli will need to see for himself. I'd hoped Kíli was mistaken, but it seems a brother's instinct spoke true.”

Bofur looked at him in confusion, then watched Fíli take his place at his uncle's side. His perpetual swagger was gone, replaced by slumped shoulders and slightly dragging feet. Kíli almost seemed to be supporting him, and his mussed braids hung in his face. The lad glanced back once, and the desolation in the blue eyes bore no resemblance to the spirit he had shown over the past months, up to the moments before the dragon emerged from the Mountain. The miner choked on his pipe, suddenly realizing what Balin meant.

“Mahal – I knew they were close, but you think Viska was his One?” he demanded quietly, calling Bifur to his side with a quick gesture. Balin shook his head and shrugged.

“Kíli thinks so. Fíli never confirmed it, not with the way that Thorin has been behaving, but I don't think he has to, now.”

“All the more reason to find them. And hope for the best.” Exchanging some quick signs with his cousin, Bofur pulled his brother aside for a moment.

“We're going to the lake,” he explained, but Bombur nodded and cut him off.

“Find them, brother. Losing that lass will destroy our prince. They are soul-bound. Thorin will regret his actions in time – make sure they are here when he does. I'll keep an eye on the lads, and our burglar. And on our king, for whatever good it might do.”

* * *

 

 

_He follows blindly, allowing his brother to guide him through the stone halls. His hand brushes marble and he snatches it back, unwilling to accept the comfort of the Mountain. He does not deserve it. He deserves to feel as he does now, full of guilt and shame. He has failed, and he has lost his One, and he will never be the same._

* * *

 

 

Dunstan, Guard of Laketown, paced the shore of the lake, staring out at the remains of his home. He was one of the few who had not joined the Master in his frantic looting of the Laketown treasury, choosing instead to aid those he could before finally toppling into a boat with the last of his strength. Fíli and Kíli might have recognized him, for he was the kind-faced young man that had led them to the house they had used during their stay. For his part, he had found the Dwarves courteous, if a bit gruff, and had watched curiously as several of them had spent the days among the people of the town. Something told him that they, too, saw the subtle undercurrents, the building unrest, the small acts of rebellion against the Master. Acts that he glimpsed from the corner of his eye, and quietly ignored, hoping that they would lead to definitive action to remove the petty, greedy despot from his seat of power.

Now, that would never happen. He did not know if the Master had even escaped the destruction – he had not seen any sign of him or any of the most loyal guards from the time the dragon descended on Laketown. Dunstan had not seen the dragon fall – he had been busy helping his neighbors into boats and shoving them out into the lake. When the tower had collapsed, he had been making for the last boat, anxious to escape while there was still time. Steps from safety, he had tripped over two small, still forms, and his breath caught in his chest, fearing that he had found children that would not see another dawn. Then one of the forms had moved, and he had realized that they were not children at all, but Dwarves.

* * *

 

 

Fíli and Kíli had grown up on Thorin's tales of the Lonely Mountain, the great realm of Erebor where their great-grandfather Thrór had reigned as King Under the Mountain. As small Dwarflings, they had thrilled to his descriptions of the walls of green marble, carved and polished til they gleamed; the great mines and forges whence came the jewels and gold of the great treasury; and the treasury itself, a vast room filled with gems, coins, and works of gold unparalleled.

Now that he was here, now that the Mountain was won and he stood in the great treasury, Fíli could not bring himself to care. The light of the torches reflected off of thousands of surfaces – gleaming gold, shining silver, glinting gems. The vast hoard was beyond what even the expansive imagination of a Dwarfling could have conjured, but it held no draw for the heir of Durin, by rights Crown Prince and next in line for the throne of Erebor. The journey was done, the quest accomplished, dragon slain, and home reclaimed, but Fíli, son of Dís, daughter of Thráin, son of Thrór, felt no pride, no joy, no sense of accomplishment. All he felt was empty, an unfilled mold rather than a Dwarf hewn from stone.

He walked beside his uncle because Thorin demanded it, but he took no pleasure in the sight of his great-grandfather's treasury. He kept pace with his brother because Kíli kept a warm hand on his arm, but he was numb to the steady stream of murmurs meant to comfort and calm that poured into his ear, pitched too low to distract their uncle's attention from the vast hoard before him. Greedy joy suffused Thorin's face so that Fíli could not meet his gaze – there was too much there of the uncle he remembered, and yet not enough. It was like seeing a nightmarish, twisted version of the Dwarf who had raised him, trained him, stood as his father after Torvi's death.

Finally, Thorin stopped, and his nephews stopped with him, huddled together rather than flanking him as was their usual practice. He did not appear to notice. His eyes, usually the blue of a summer's evening, held a glint of darkness and ice crept into his deep voice.

“Behold, my sister-sons, the wealth of Thrór, King Under the Mountain! Look at last on the Kingdom of Erebor, your birthright and home! Is she not magnificent?”

It took a long moment of silence and a dangerous tilt to Thorin's head before the lads realized that his question had not been rhetorical.

“Yes, Uncle,” Kíli answered quietly. “It is beautiful.”

Thorin continued to stare at them and Kíli spoke again, sounding like he was trying to muster more enthusiasm. “It is amazing, Uncle. Overwhelming, even. Right, Fi?”

With great effort, Fíli met his brother's desperate gaze and summoned a halfhearted smile to his face. “Yes, _nadadith_. Truly wondrous. And safely yours now, Uncle. Erebor is reclaimed.”

Thorin's brow darkened abruptly and Fíli wondered what he had said wrong. But his uncle turned to gaze pensively out over the glittering piles.

“Reclaimed, yes, but still I lack the Arkenstone. It must be here, somewhere. We will search until it is found, all of the Company. Only then will the throne be safely mine, and later yours, Nephew. Balin!”

“Aye, Thorin.”

The elder Dwarf had been following along behind them and now he stepped to his cousin's side, Dwalin at his shoulder. Fíli caught both of his old teachers casting worried looks his way and he made an effort to straighten his stance just a little, enough to hopefully ease their concern.

“Set everyone to searching!” the king ordered shortly, not even glancing at his lifelong friends. “We must find the Arkenstone as soon as possible.”

Dwalin frowned and Balin cleared his throat awkwardly. “Might it not be best to let everyone get a bit of sleep?” he offered tentatively. “It has been a long night, and a longer day before the sun set. Let them get a few hours of rest and start fresh in the morning.”

Thorin looked displeased, but finally nodded dismissively. “A few hours, no more. I expect everyone back in the treasury at first light, save a sentry at the front gate. The Arkenstone is the most important thing now.”

Balin nodded without comment and turned to usher the rest of the Company off to find a place to rest. Fíli and Kíli turned to join them.

“Even you, my nephews? You would sleep, rather than seek your birthright?”

Kíli's hand tightened on his arm and Fíli sighed, turning back. “By your leave, Uncle, yes. We would sleep. As Balin said, it has been a long night and day, and we have lost two dear friends in Laketown. A little sleep to clear our heads will make for a more thorough search come morning.”

“Wherever the stone is, it will still be there at dawn, unless you find it before then,” Kíli added with a weary smile.

Fíli was not sure what the expression was that flickered across Thorin's face then, but it looked very much like suspicion and distrust, and it started a low churning in his gut. He increased his pace slightly, anxious to get his brother out of the room. Something was wrong – he could almost smell the sickness that in the air, a miasma of greed that clung to his mother's elder brother like a noxious cloud. Any comment, especially one of Kíli's flippant remarks, might set off an avalanche of consequences that they were not prepared to face.

* * *

 

 

Her face was raw and pink with the memory of the heat of dragonfire, her eyes gritty and dry from smoke and exhaustion. Viska stood on the shore of the Long Lake in the first glimmers of dawn, gazing out over the smoldering wreckage of the town of Men, though she did not see it. Her eyes were fixed on the Lonely Mountain, a towering shape against the fading stars. Three days ago, she had watched her dearest friends depart for that Mountain, hoping to slip in and out again under the nose of a sleeping dragon. But now that dragon lay dead at the bottom of the lake, having taken Laketown and many of its inhabitants with him, and she did not know the fate of the Company. Thorin, Bilbo, Kíli, Fíli...the thought of any or all of them dead and lost tore at her heart and cast her into the horror only a few hours past....

 

_The world smells of smoke, and fear, and smoking leathers as the Dwarrowmaid claws her way back to consciousness. Her ears are filled with screams and the crackling roar of flames, but the closest sound is faint and chilling – a choking, hitching breath, and a soft gasp in a voice as familiar as her own. Panic surges through her as she realizes that she is trapped, pinned to the moisture-warped wood of the walkway, a heavy burden weighing her down as she struggles to sit up. The weight on top of her moves, shifting slightly, and suddenly she is free, gasping and trying to fill her lungs with precious air, no matter the acrid bite in her throat. Her fingers are scrabbling against worn leather and warm metal buckles, gripping the edges of the coat that covers the still figure next to her, the fire's merciless glow painting the scene in hellish shades of red and gold. Here, then, is the burden that held her down, the shield that protected her from the dragon's final fiery exhalation, and the heat from the inferno is drying her tears even as they fall. She is keening, unable to draw breath for the cry that is building in her heart, her very soul, eyes searching the beloved face for any sign of hope. She is on her knees, trying to pull him to her, but her fingers on his back find crisped flesh, then dry muscle, and finally the smooth expanse of exposed bone, and a breathless scream slips from his lips. She snatches her hand away and reaches instead for the front of his coat, bringing her forehead against his as she smooths back the auburn hair and murmurs to him, begs, her voice hoarse and broken._

_“No,_ nadad _...do not leave me. You must live, brother!”_

_Udmas cannot have him. He cannot have her brother. He has already taken her father, the grandparents and mother that she never knew, possibly the entire Company. He cannot take her brother, her strength!_

_There is a movement beside her and a large, strong hand clasps her shoulder as a tall Man kneels at her side. She spares him only the briefest of glances, for the look on his face is grim and she will not allow herself to accept what she can clearly see. It is the young Guardsman from their first night in Laketown and the truth is in his kind brown eyes, and in Triskel's pain-glazed hazel, but she closes her own and shakes her head furiously, shouting at the Man in Khuzdul when he tries to pull her to her feet. Trisk's hands are on hers and he tightens his grip for a moment, fixing his eyes on her face as his lips move soundlessly. She leans in once more, but cannot keep from protesting softly when he finally manages to speak. There is no strength in his voice, only love._

_“Go,_ namadith _. Find the others, if they live. If not, carry the letter to Ered Luin. Dís waits for her sons and brother. Do not let her spend her life waiting for word from those who will not return. Be her comfort, and she will be yours.”_

_One hand grasps weakly at the front edge of his coat and she brushes it gently aside to reach into the inner pocket and retrieve Thorin's letter, safe in its treated waterproof pouch. She tucks it away before she takes his hand for the last time, lifting it in both of hers and pressing it to her lips. His eyes are already staring past her, to the Halls of Mandos, but he manages a slight smile and his fingers tighten on hers briefly._

_“_ Birashagammi.”

_And then he is gone, and the Guardsman is prying her hands away and pulling her to her feet. The fire is closer now, and she can feel the heat scorching her face, her hands. She wants to stop the Man, to tell him that they must bring Trisk with them – he is a Dwarf, and should be returned to the stone, not left to burn in the pyre that once was Esgaroth – but there is no time. The fire is spreading and the damage done by Smaug's fall will soon ensure the collapse of what remains of the town. They must get to shore, find the survivors, and salvage what they can from this night of fire._

 

A gentle hand on her shoulder brought her back to herself, and the Dwarrowlass looked up into leaf-green eyes so like her own. There was such a depth of sympathy in them that she wondered how she could ever have thought the Elven Captain stoic and unfeeling. She managed a weak smile for Tauriel, glancing past her to where Bard was speaking with Dunstan and the other survivors about tending the wounded and gathering what they could from the remains of the town. The Elf maid's eyes flickered toward the Men, then over to the tall figure that stood apart, golden hair catching the first glow of the morning light.

“You are leaving?” It was more statement than question, and Viska could feel her heart sinking. Tauriel nodded apologetically.

“My prince has sent word to the king about the dragon, and about the Orcs, but we must ride North. The leader of the Orc pack bore the mark of Gundabad, their ancient fortress, and we must investigate.”

The Dwarf lass grimaced, the mention of the northern fortress causing a flash of ingrained racial hatred to surge through her. Shaking her head, she gave the Elf a low bow, her hand pressed to her heart in sincere appreciation for all that Tauriel had done. “Valar protect you, Tauriel of the Woodland Realm. May we meet again.”

The Elf maid glanced only briefly at the waiting prince, then met Viska's eyes seriously. “I would not leave you here alone, bereft of kith and kin,” she stated. “We can take you to the Iron Hills, if you like.”

The Dwarf lass shook her head, her grief-darkened gaze fixed on the looming Mountain. “No, Erebor is my home, as it was my father's. We came to help reclaim and rebuild it.”

“And if your people are dead? Or Oakenshield will not let you stay?”

“Then I will find another home,” Viska replied grimly. “But I must try.”

Tauriel smiled slightly. “Dwarves are indeed stubborn as stone,” she commented. The lass shrugged.

“We are as we were created. We endure.”

“At the least, I would offer you transport to the Mountain, so you need not walk alone. There may still be Orcs in the area.”

Viska nodded. “That offer, I will accept, if your prince will permit it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Kaminzabdûna – Khuzdul name for the Vala Yavanna, Lady of the Earth
> 
> Usahu – Khuzdul name for the Vala Ulmo, Lord of the Waters
> 
> Kidzulzanât – Khuzdul name for the Vala Tulkas, the Warrior
> 
> Asranulmadtûna – Khuzdul name for the Vala Nessa, She of the Dancing Heart
> 
> Udmas – Khuzdul name for the Vala Námo, Keeper of the Halls of Mandos
> 
> Bebanuknar – Khuzdul name for the Vala Vairë, the Weaver
> 
> Sulladad – Khuzdul name for Ilúvitar, the One
> 
> Manakhkhashûna – Khuzdul name for the Vala Nienna, Lady of Sorrow
> 
> Thranduilion – Son of Thranduil
> 
> “Fíli...nadad, isbir-e. Fíli, innikh dê. Kasamhili, nadad, isbir-e. Fíli, kasamhili...kasamhili...innikh dê.” - “Fíli...brother, answer me. Fíli, return to me. Please, brother, answer me. Fíli, please...please...return to me.”
> 
> Birashagammi – I am sorry.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to anyone who is sticking with me after last week's events. It broke my heart to write them, but the story tells itself in many ways, and that is what had to happen.
> 
> This chapter should be a bit easier to read. As ever, reviews and comments are welcome!

_The first rays of sunlight creep up the broad lawn before the Great Gate of Erebor. A silent figure sits on a block of broken stone, restlessly sharpening an already deadly blade. The sound of the whetstone, the repetitive motions – both are soothing to a troubled soul, a mind in turmoil. That much he has learned, watching Bifur at his carving through the years._

_Bifur is gone, now – he and Bofur slipped out of the Mountain a few hours ago, after a whispered consultation with Balin. No one has told him where they went, but he knows. He knows, but he does not harbor hope. Hope is a mirage, a denial of the truth. He saw Laketown burning, saw the destruction that the dragon wrought. There will be survivors – Men who fled the firestorm – but he knows his lass. Viska will have run toward the dragon, not away, and Trisk will have been at her side. The siblings showed their nature early in the quest, and every encounter has shown their hearts more clearly. Wargs, Orcs, Goblins, spiders – every enemy faced with selfless courage, and that will not have faltered in the town on the lake. Not when they know that the Company roused the beast, perhaps even believe that their companions have fallen to him already._

_He has not slept. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her – burning in dragonfire, drowning in the icy waters, crushed beneath Smaug's dead bulk, trapped in the crumbling town – and so he spent the hours staring into the deep darkness of the Mountain. At his side, Kíli had dozed fitfully, only sinking into true sleep when his hand made contact with stone. For a brief moment, jealousy and anger had surged in the golden prince, bitter bile at the back of his throat. Anger was easy. Reining it in had been difficult, forcing himself to truly look at the raven prince harder still. The dark shadows under his eyes, the lines of grief on his face – Kíli is exhausted, at the end of his strength, and he needs this time to draw on that of the Mountain._

_Fíli is also weary, but he cannot rest. He cannot close his eyes, cannot seek solace in the Song. He has failed, and she has suffered for it, and there can be no peace for him. Not now. Perhaps not ever. This restlessness drove him out to where he now sits. He cannot see Laketown from here, but he can see the dwindling smoke that rises from it, last wisps of the funeral pyre._

_He is drowning. Grief washes over him in waves, wraps his chest in iron bands that force the very air from his lungs. Memories tumble through his mind, and there are not enough. After months of travel, he has so few moments to treasure, so few precious images of the teasing smile and laughing green eyes. Not nearly enough to soothe the long, lonely years that lie ahead. He has not yet reached his first century – in the natural order of things, he has nearly twice as many years ahead as he does behind, and it will be spent alone, for Dwarves love but once._

_“Fíli.”_

_The quiet voice at his elbow goes unheeded, but then a gentle hand closes on his, stilling the movement of the whetstone. He glances up, expecting to see Kíli's dark, anxious gaze, but instead finds Bombur and Glóin watching him with compassion. Of all the Company, these two are among the last he would have predicted. Kíli, Balin, Bilbo, even Dwalin, he could imagine, but the quiet cook and the surly merchant? It is odd to see them together at all, much less at the side of their grieving prince. It takes a moment, but understanding dawns. They alone can truly comprehend the pain in his heart, for they alone have found their Ones. Glóin has his Fla, and Bombur has his Eira, and it is all too easy for them to imagine the loss that Fíli is enduring. A tiny, ungrateful thought rises in the back of his mind, reminding him that they still have their wives and children, even so far apart as they are, but he shoves it away ruthlessly and manages a small nod of acknowledgment. He is not ready to speak of his loss, but he appreciates the wordless offer. Sheathing the knife, and tucking the whetstone away in his pocket, he gets to his feet and turns his back on the smoke rising over the Long Lake._

_“Thorin wants us all in the treasury,” Glóin murmurs. “Nori has first watch, but the king wants everyone else searching for the Arkenstone.”_

_Fíli nods, brushing tangled golden hair back from his face and settling his shoulders to conceal the pain in his heart. He strides toward the Gate, leaving them to fall in behind him. He does not know or care if they can hear him._

_“I hope the Stone is worth the price we have paid.”_

* * *

 

“You are determined to do this?”

Viska glanced up at her fire-haired companion. Tauriel was eying the Mountain dubiously as she stood next to her horse. Their departure from the refugee camp had been delayed in waiting for the mounts to be brought from the Woodland stables, but the speed with which the animals moved had made up for the lost time. The Elf prince had spoken no word of complaint regarding the slight detour to deliver the Dwarrowmaid to Erebor, even before she had given a quiet apology for her words in Laketown. He had simply nodded graciously and offered his regrets for her recent grief.

“Thorin is my king, and more than that, Fíli is my One,” the lass replied softly. “I must know if they live. Even with Smaug dead, they are still in danger from Azog and his Orcs. I must warn them, if nothing else. I would not walk away from my people.” She paused, glancing back at the lake with a grimace. “Bard's folk will need shelter and supplies,” she added. “Winter is closing in quickly. Perhaps I can prepare the way and convince Thorin to give them temporary space in the Mountain. I must try. We owe them too much to let them freeze and starve on our very doorstep.”

The she-Elf nodded. Over the past sleepless hours, Viska had gotten to know the Mirkwood guard a little and she regretted that her king's antipathy toward Elves would make it difficult to pursue a friendship. _Assuming he even lets me stay_ , she thought grimly. Adjusting her light pack one more time, she nodded to Tauriel.

“Thank you, for everything. May we meet again in less...interesting...times.”

With a small smile, Tauriel nodded and vaulted on to the back of her horse, speeding off to catch up to her prince. Viska stood where she was, staring up at the Mountain and thinking about _her_ fair-haired prince. She hadn't let the Elves bring her too close, concerned about provoking a reaction from Thorin, so she had half of a day's walk still between her and Erebor. Taking a deep breath, she gave her pack another unnecessary adjustment and started forward, one foot in front of another...for about four steps.

“Viska? Lass?”

The gentle, genial voice was barely recognizable, choked with emotion as it was. Viska barely had time to look around for the speaker before she was nearly bowled over by a familiar hatted figure.

“Bofur? Oh, thank Mahal!” she gasped, hugging him tightly. When he finally let her go, she staggered a bit and stared around to see his cousin standing nearby, a broad smile on his face as well. “And Bifur!” She lunged over to give her silent friend a hug, and he patted her gently on the shoulder. Tears streamed down the lass's face as she looked at her friends. “The Company? Everyone is alive? Unhurt?”  
  
“Aye, lass, when we left they were all sound in body, though rather damaged in spirit.”

“Why? What's happened?”  
  
Bofur stared at her. “We could see Laketown burning, lass.”

Realization broke over her, temporarily burying the deep sorrow in her heart as she understood.

“Oh! Oh, Mahal! They think I'm dead! Fíli thinks I'm dead! I have to get to the Mountain!”

A broad smile broke over the miner's face and he turned to his cousin. “Told ya, Bifur! Bif wasn't sure you felt as strongly as our prince does,” he confided. But Bifur was signing urgently and Bofur suddenly stopped and started searching the landscape. “But where's your brother? Where is Trisk?”

The choking grief rose up again and Viska stamped it down. Bofur's face clouded as he saw her expression.

“Triskel fell in Laketown.”

“The dragon?”

She nodded, watching the dark eyes fill with tears and fighting her own. “Protecting me,” she told him quietly, unable to stifle the guilt that welled up in her heart. “Bard slew the beast, but in his death throes...Trisk took the fire for me.” She turned away abruptly, only to have them come up to either side, each putting an arm about her shoulders.

“Would you have done any different for him, lass?” Bofur asked gently. “I don't think you would. I would have done the same for Bombur, or my cousin here, or any member of the Company, had it been needful.”

Bifur nodded, pulling his arm away to sign to her, his dark eyes sympathetic.

_Accept his sacrifice with the love in which it was given, daughter of Mahal._

She managed a small smile before sudden memory surged through her.

“The Orcs! I have to warn Thorin!”

“Orcs?”

Viska nodded, already moving, forcing the two older Dwarrow to hurry to catch up. “Azog's Orcs found us in Laketown, before Smaug came. Some of them escaped, and the Elves think they are going for reinforcements. I must speak to Thorin, if he will see me. And I must see Fíli.”

Bofur exchanged a look with his cousin and nodded. “Aye, lass. I don't know that Thorin will listen, but we will take you to him. And I want to see Fíli's face when he sees you, safe and whole.”

For several long minutes, they walked in silence. “What happened up there?” she finally asked. “You woke Smaug, but everyone escaped unharmed?”

“Well, technically, _Bilbo_ woke Smaug, and I'm still a little unclear as to how he escaped. It involved riddles, but I'd best leave that story for our Hobbit to tell.”

Viska smiled. “All of our burglar's stories seem to involve riddles. I'm surprised he did not challenge the Elf king to a riddle contest to win our freedom!”

Bofur chuckled. “So, he woke the beast and escaped, but it was angry, of course, so it flew around the Mountain looking for us. We had gone inside when it flew out, but when we realized that it was flying off toward Laketown, we came out again. We were halfway up the mountain, or more.” He pointed vaguely. “We could see the fire on the lake. We saw the dragon fall.” He looked at her inquisitively.

“Bard,” she answered his unspoken question. “Trisk and I were staying with his family. He had a black arrow hidden, the last of Girion's. They are safe,” she added, seeing the concern in Bifur's eyes for his young friends.

“Ah. Well, we saw the town burning, and the dragon fall. Fíli...oh, lass, he was a mess, our prince. It took Kíli to bring him back, calling his brother's name, begging him to respond. Bilbo wanted to go back and help the Lakefolk – several of us did. But Thorin...all he saw was the dragon dead and his path clear to the Arkenstone. He demanded the lads accompany him into the Mountain, to search for the stone. Bifur 'n I volunteered to come look for ya.”

“When did you leave them?”

“Wee hours of the mornin', and we hadn't stopped before we found you. We should reach the Mountain by dusk.”

* * *

 

The King Under the Mountain watched from the shadows as the others began the search for the Arkenstone. He had not slept, spending the hours of the night in his own search, but it had not yet been found, and so he was forced to trust to their aid.

_Do not trust them_ , part of his mind screamed at him. _They would_ _take_ _it for their own! See how Balin watches you when he thinks you do not see? He would claim the jewel, and the kingship!_

_They are true to their king,_ another part argued, smaller and quieter, buried deep in his mind. _It is the heirloom of the House of Durin, and they will see it safely to the hands of their king._

_Ah, but he who holds the Stone_ is _the king_ , that sly, suspicious part of Thorin replied. _Is not Balin also of the blood of Durin? Are not most of your Company of royal blood? Any one of them might claim it, not least your heirs, your sister's sons who have defied you at every turn._

Deep sapphire eyes picked out the two youngest members of the Company, both pale and wan in the light of the torches. Deep in the Dwarf lord's soul, a third voice spoke up, distracting him.

_The dragon is dead. The Mountain is reclaimed. What need is there of the Stone? The armies of the Dwarves are no longer needed – now is the time to rebuild, and Dáin will be eager to see Erebor rise once more. Send for him. Forget this futile search and send for Dáin._

That portion of his mind was stifled even as the thought formed, however, drowned out by the nerve-scraping melody that threaded itself through every fiber. The Arkenstone was his birthright, and he would see it found.

* * *

 

Kíli was exhausted. The few hours of sleep that the Company had managed before dawn was not enough to make up for the long hours of wakefulness before the dragon's death. Nor were they enough to ease the effects of shock and grief on the young Dwarf. He could not imagine how Fíli must feel. His brother had spoken little since dawn, and the archer did not think he had actually slept at all, but he had joined the others in the treasury nonetheless. Balin had organized the most orderly search pattern that he could devise, but even the youngest prince could tell that a thorough search of the great hoard would take weeks.

Thorin, of course, had searched through the night, but the feverish glint in his eye shone just as brightly as before. He spoke no word to the others, muttering instead to himself as he dug haphazardly through piles of gems and goldwork, when he wasn't watching them silently from the heights of the stairs. In a way, it was a relief, for he had not noticed or commented on the absence of Bifur and Bofur, who had left for Laketown in the early hours. Nori had drawn first watch of the day, to be followed by Glóin and Kíli himself, so the sharp-tongued thief was perched just inside the Great Gate, more interested in any sign of their missing friends than whatever nebulous enemy Thorin feared. Kíli worked beside his brother, keeping a watchful eye on Fíli's listless expression and lost blue eyes. It made Kíli physically ill to see his calm, confident brother looking so broken. Always, Fíli had been the strong one, the one least likely to lose his temper or get upset. To see him so devastated, to be unable to brighten his spirits with a brotherly hug, or joke, or just by being Kíli, was a new and immensely disturbing experience.

_Mahal, give him strength. If you cannot return Viska to us, give Fíli the strength to endure the loss of his One. And give me the strength to help him._

“Kíli?”

A soft voice at his elbow startled the dark-haired prince and he dropped the golden cup he had been shifting, turning to see Ori. The young scribe shrugged apologetically.

“Sorry. Glóin asked me to get you. Said it's your turn at watch. I'll stay with Fíli, if you like.”

Kíli sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I didn't realize it had gotten so late. Fi?” He tapped his brother on the shoulder. “I'm taking watch. Bombur should be handing dinner around soon. Ori's going to make sure you eat.” The last part was delivered with a small glare and Fíli managed a wan smile and nod.

“Fair enough. Let me know when it's my turn, little brother.”

With a final worried look, Kíli trotted out of the treasury to take Glóin's place at the gate. The burly merchant clasped his shoulder for a moment, reminding the younger Dwarf abruptly of his son, and Kíli's friend, Gimli.

“How fares your brother?”

“Quiet,” he replied frankly. “But he will run himself into the ground before he will let Thorin see him break.”

“Stubborn, and proud,” Glóin agreed with a slight smile.

“And torn apart inside.” Kíli sighed. “Mahal, I hope Bofur returns with good news. But it will be days yet before he returns at all.”

“And Thorin? Any change in him?”

“None. He remains obsessed with the Stone.”

Glóin nodded heavily and headed back toward the treasury. Kíli watched him for a moment, then sighed and clambered up to take a seat on the broken wall so he could stare down the slope in front of the gate. The seat wasn't comfortable, but it should certainly help keep him from dozing off.

He did not doze, but his mind must have gone wandering, for his awareness was jolted back by a movement outside in the landscape. Startled, he stood, peering out into the dimming evening. Gradually, the moving blur resolved into three approaching figures – one of which was undoubtedly Bofur. Excitement surged in the young prince's heart, tempered by the fact that there were only three figures, instead of four. Bouncing on his toes, he watched them draw closer, straining to make out more detail. Finally, he gave a strangled yelp and threw himself off of the wall, boots pounding the earth as he ran toward them.

Bofur gave a shout of greeting and waved at him as he drew closer, and the hooded figure looked up, revealing Viska's clear eyes in a face worn by grief. When she saw him, joy temporarily washed away the sorrow and she too began running, slamming into his embrace several steps ahead of her companions. Kíli held her tightly, feeling her shoulders shudder with conflicting emotions as she buried her face in his coat.

“Easy, _namad_ ,” he murmured. “I am here, sister. You are safe. You are home, and _he_ is waiting for you.”

“Fíli. I need Fíli. I must speak to Thorin, but first - “

“First you need Fíli, I know.” He smiled gently, rubbing soothing circles on her back with his hand. “Wait here, dear one. Stay with Bofur a moment and I will fetch him for you.”

She nodded, still shivering, and he carefully transferred her to the miner's gentle embrace, then glanced at Bifur. Viska's condition gave him a good idea of what he would learn, but he signed briefly to the toymaker anyway.

_Her brother?_

_Dead_ , came the reply. _The dragon. And there were Orcs_.

Orcs? Kíli's eyebrows shot up. That must be her news for Thorin. Well, it could wait a minute or two. Dashing back into the Mountain, he slipped silently into the great hoard, letting out a relieved breath when he saw that Thorin was on the far side, engrossed in gold.

“Ori!” he hissed. The scribe glanced up in surprise and Kíli signed at him urgently.

_Send my brother out. Quickly!_

His quiet friend blinked and nodded, then turned to lay a hand on Fíli's arm and murmur something to him. The golden head nodded shortly, then Kíli saw his brother glance up to gauge Thorin's attention before hurrying quietly from the room.

“ _Nadadith_?” Fíli's expression was guarded and cautious, but Kíli felt a huge grin creeping across his own face.

“Viska's here. She's alive. Bifur and Bofur brought her home. She's waiting for you, _nadad_.”

For a moment, he was afraid that his brother was going to pass out in front of him. Fíli's face went pale, then flushed as life bled back into his wide blue eyes. Kíli caught his arm before he could run for the gate.

“One thing, brother. Triskel is dead.”

Fíli looked stricken, but he nodded shortly and Kíli let him go, following as he hurried out.

Without even seeing his brother's face, Kíli could tell the moment that he saw Viska for himself. Fíli's back straightened abruptly and he sped up, darting through the debris of the hall. For her part, Viska froze for a brief second, shining eyes locking on his face. Then she broke from Bofur's sheltering arm and ran, her hood falling back to expose her shorn curls as she covered the remaining distance with quick strides. Then she was in his arms, face buried in Fíli's thick golden mane, fingers twisted in his coat as he cradled her close. Kíli felt a lump in his throat and tears filling his eyes as he blinked and glanced away. Bofur came over to join him, the miner's nose rather red and tears on his kind face. Bifur's eyes were also suspiciously damp.

“They were staying with the bargeman, Bard, the one with the three youngsters,” Bofur told him hoarsely, turning away to give the reunited couple at least an illusion of privacy. “Orcs tracked the Company through Mirkwood, then to the house. She said that the red-haired Elf lass and the princeling pursued the vile creatures to Laketown and helped her protect the children. Bard slew the dragon with one of Girion's black arrows, but Trisk fell protecting her from the beast's final attack.”

Kíli nodded. “So, not only are the folk of the Lake homeless through our actions, one of theirs slew the dragon that we woke.” He sighed and ran a hand through his mussed dark hair. “I somehow doubt that Thorin will see it in that light.”

Concern darkened Bofur's gaze. “That bad, is he?”

“You'll see. Come on, let's leave them for a moment. Thorin needs to know about the Orcs. And...everything.”

* * *

 

Bofur had assured her that they were well, but even the words of a friend were not quite enough to soothe the lass who had just lost the last of her blood. True relief did not sear her heart until she looked up to see Kíli hurtling down the slope from Erebor's gate, wearing a smile that split his face, dark brown eyes alight with joy. Then he was holding her so tightly, calling her sister, and another beloved voice echoed his in her mind. “You are safe. You are home.” But she wasn't home – not quite. She was close. Erebor was one step, Kíli's loving embrace another, but -

“Fíli. I need Fíli.” She was so close to sobbing, but she could not. Not yet. Bad enough that she was not strong enough to go to Thorin first – she would save her mourning until her folk were relatively safe, but she could not force herself to forgo seeking comfort in his strong embrace to fortify her heart.

“Wait here, dear one. Stay with Bofur a moment and I will fetch him for you.” Kíli was murmuring to her softly, then handing her over to another's gentle arms. Then he was gone, dashing back into the Mountain.

“Come on, lass. Let's get you inside, at least,” the miner said, urging her forward. Viska nodded and let him escort her through the gate. She caught glimpses of dull green marble, long unpolished but carved and worked in wondrous designs. Then heavy, hurried footsteps were running toward her, stumbling over debris, and her vision was filled with summer eyes, blue as the heart of a forge flame, beneath a crown of golden hair. Breaking out of Bofur's arms, she ran, slamming into the broad chest, feeling the powerful arms wrap around her, holding her so close. She buried her face in his hair and took a deep breath to steady herself. His rich voice was murmuring in her ear, comforting nonsense that simply meant “you are safe,” and “I love you.”

She could hear Kíli and Bofur talking off to the side, the miner passing on her news of the Orcs. The younger prince sounded grim and troubled, but resigned to bear the tidings to his uncle. For a moment, she considered letting him go alone. He and Bofur could tell Thorin of the danger – she was not needed. She could stay here, safe in the arms of her One, and let the rest of the world fade away. It was so tempting, the more so because she knew that Kíli would not blame her for doing so, would not chastise her for shirking this one duty. But she was Kulvik's daughter, and Triskel's sister, and Fíli's beloved, and she would not avoid her responsibilities. She was the sole Dwarven witness to the Orcs, Laketown, and Smaug's fall, and she owed her king her knowledge. So she finally broke into Fíli's soft mutterings, placing a kiss on her fingertips and pressing them to his lips to silence him.

“I must speak to Thorin,” she told him quietly. “I must warn him.”

He tensed, but nodded, anxiety sliding behind his eyes. “I will go with you, _amrâlimê_. My uncle is...changed, even since Laketown.”

* * *

 

Ori had had half of his attention on the door ever since Kíli had beckoned his brother out, hoping for news of the absent Dwarves. Or perhaps it was more than half, because he certainly did not have enough attention on the rest of his surroundings to avoid being badly startled by the sudden presence of Thorin practically at his elbow. The young scribe actually yelped in surprise when he glanced up into the stormy eyes of the king.

“Where are my nephews?” Thorin demanded. Ori gulped.

“Kíli's on watch,” he stammered. “Fíli went to speak with him for a moment. I'm sure he'll return soon.”

Thorin growled under his breath, the sound chilling Ori's blood. “I reclaim the Mountain for them, and still they act like Dwarflings, deserting their responsibilities!”

“There is Kíli now,” a gruff voice cut in. Dwalin had come up at Thorin's shoulder, casting a concerned look at his old friend. “And Bofur with him. The lad might have news.”

“Unless it be of the Arkenstone, I care not,” Thorin replied dismissively. Bofur's head came up in shock and he stumbled, staring at the king in consternation. Kíli tensed, dark eyes narrowing and shoulders bracing as if for a blow.

“Not the Arkenstone, but Orcs,” the young prince cut in, shooting Dwalin a glance. Ori stood frozen, unsure if he should stay or go. The big warrior solved his dilemma by summoning the rest of the Company with a barked order. Behind Bofur, Bifur entered the room silently, followed by a dark-haired figure cradled against Fíli's shoulder.

“Viska!”

Bilbo's glad cry had all of the Dwarves staring at the approaching lass. She looked up and smiled wanly at them, her face strained and pale, but honest joy in her eyes. Bilbo was the first to reach her and she pulled away from the prince slightly to hug the excited Halfling with a chuckle. Then the rest of the Company was crowding around her with smiles, hugs, and enthusiastic claps on the back. Fíli watched with a protective air, as though ready to whisk her away at any moment. Thorin stood back as well, watching through narrowed eyes.

* * *

 

It was Nori who brought everyone back from their elation.

“Where is Trisk?” the thief asked, looking concerned. The others quieted immediately, glancing around for the cheerful young silversmith. Viska straightened and stepped away, addressing herself respectfully to Thorin.

“My brother died in Laketown, during the slaying of the dragon, but I bring other news, Thorin _Uzbad,_ ” she said formally, inclining her head. “We were set upon by Orcs, part of a pack that tracked us to Mirkwood, then followed our scent to the town.”

“Azog?” That was Dori, sounding horrified. Viska glanced at him.

“I did not see the pale Orc, but I do not doubt that they were there at his command.”

“And _you_ survived?”

The sneer in Thorin's voice was clear, and Ori stared at the king in shock. Viska tensed and Fíli stepped to her side protectively, glaring at his uncle. Kíli was only a heartbeat behind his brother, moving to the lass's other side and putting a hand on her shoulder. She ignored both of them for the moment, meeting Thorin's gaze.

“I did. Mostly due to unexpected aid. Tauriel, the Guard Captain of Mirkwood, and Legolas, son of the king, were tracking the Orcs. They saved our lives, and those of the bargeman’s children, for they had given us shelter when we stayed behind in Laketown.”

“Now you dare stand in Erebor and claim Elves as allies? In the very halls of my fathers?” Thorin's voice was a snarl and his hand clutched convulsively on his sword hilt. Viska's eyes flashed.

“I do not claim them as allies, I merely state what happened. They aided us against a common enemy. And my father dwelt in these halls as well, my king. I honored your wishes – I remained in Laketown until Smaug was dead. Only then did I approach Erebor to bring you warning.”

“Oh, I'm sure that your _warning_ was the only reason you came.” Thorin barked a humorless laugh, his eyes flickering over his nephews.

Ori felt like he was about to cry. Never had he seen Thorin act so cruel. He was stern, yes, and intimidating, but these vicious comments and hateful looks were beyond the young scribe's experience of Durin's heir. He thought they might be beyond anyone's experience of him, for Thorin's own nephews were staring at him in hurt bewilderment, edging toward anger. Balin had his head bowed in grief, shaking it slowly, not daring to look at his old friend. Dwalin stood, as ever, at Thorin's elbow, but his brow was lowered and anger was etched into his face. Bilbo was glaring quite openly, as was Nori. Bofur still looked hurt and confused, while Bifur looked impassive, but had to keep restraining himself from reaching out to Viska. Dori stood at Ori's own elbow, grumbling under his breath. Bombur was absently patting his elder brother's shoulder gently, gaze fixed on the floor. Glóin stood in thoughtful silence, and Óin was pushing his way to Viska's side, apothecary bag in hand, affecting to ignore everyone else.

“No doubt you've injuries that need tending,” the irascible old healer muttered, brushing Kíli out of the way and taking the lass's arm. “Younglings – never a thought to having your hurts tended, too busy trying to impress your elders. Come along, lass. Don't crowd her, lad, I've tended lasses before!” This last was aimed at Fíli, who seemed reluctant to release his grip on her arm. With a quick glance at her face, he relinquished his guardianship and allowed the healer to lead her off to the next room. Thorin had turned and stalked away as Óin broke the tension that had gathered. Balin followed him, speaking quietly, likely about the threat of the Orcs. Glóin and Dwalin were deep in conversation as well. Bombur sent his brother and cousin off to get some sleep, then handed out the evening's rations to the remaining members of the group. Ori took a seat near Fíli and Kíli (deliberately avoiding Dori for the moment) and sat with them in companionable silence. Fíli ate absently, his gaze locked on the door where Óin and Viska had disappeared. Kíli, meanwhile, was watching his brother with a small smile on his face. Realizing that Ori was looking at him, the dark-haired prince dropped a cheerful wink, then crammed the last of his meal in his mouth and got to his feet.

“I'm going back on watch. I should not have left, but Thorin had to hear Viska's news. We'll need to think about fortifying the gate soon.”

“Already on it, lad,” Dwalin rumbled. He glanced at Balin and received a nod, then turned to the rest of the Company. “You heard the lass! Orcs are still on the hunt, and they'll know we've reached the Mountain. Time to seal up that gate!”

 


	28. Haven't Seen the End

Óin set his apothecary kit aside and turned to study the lass carefully. Most of her physical hurts had already been tended, neat bandages tied with Elven knots, and she did not hold herself like one trying to conceal further damage. No, at this point, her greatest pain was emotional – the soul-deep ache of the loss of her brother. In ideal circumstances, that healing could be left to time and the support of her dearest friends, but circumstances were less than ideal. The dragon was dead, but a new tyrant was rising behind their king's eyes, and the healer did not like the growing tension among the Company. It made him fear for the future in a way that he had not experienced since the days before Azanulbizar. Even the portents had become difficult to read, and that was deeply troubling in such times of confusion and danger.

“Óin?”

He glanced up to meet the Dwarrowmaid's gaze, a small smile quirking her lips as a hint of humor shone in her shadowed eyes.

“I am well, I promise. Tauriel is not quite a healer, but she does have some experience with tending battle injuries.”

He sighed and nodded, resting one hand on her shoulder. “Aye, lass, I can see that much. It was more to get you out of Thorin's sight that anything else. He...well, you saw how he was. I fear that we are losing him, as we lost his grandfather.”

She sank down to sit on a piece of rubble, her face troubled. “The Men of Laketown have little left, and they will be coming up to Dale to seek shelter from the winter. I had hoped to persuade him to help them, give them space in the Mountain so they would not be defenseless when the Orcs arrive, but the mood he is in....” She trailed off, looking up at him desperately, but the healer shook his head, his heart heavy with grief.

“He'd not spare them a moth-eaten blanket, lass. Balin and Bilbo have been trying to ease his temper since Smaug fell, but it is unpredictable and he is more likely to lash out than to listen. He is no longer the Dwarf we followed.”

She nodded, then took a deep breath and visibly summoned her strength, getting to her feet once more. “Then we need to help him find himself,” she stated simply. “And hope that Gandalf arrives soon. Perhaps the wizard will know how to bring him back.”

“Perhaps, if he ever arrives,” Óin agreed reluctantly. “And if Thorin listens to him.”

This time, it was her hand on his shoulder, a gentle smile on her face. “We will do what we must, my friend,” she told him quietly. She glanced toward the door as Dwalin bellowed outside, summoning the Company to the gate to begin the repairs. “And right now, we must fortify the gate against the arrival of the Orcs.”

* * *

 

“Fi.”

Fíli turned at his brother's soft comment, just in time to see Viska emerge from the side chamber ahead of Óin. The old healer gave her a fatherly pat on the arm before joining the rest of the Company in their work. The golden-haired prince glanced at Dwalin, only to find the Arms Master watching him with a small smirk.

“Go on then, lad,” he chuckled, jerking his head toward her. “Take a few minutes with your lass. Better than having you distracted while we haul and stack masonry.”

Fíli grinned and hurried over to her, taking in the details that he had missed when she had first arrived. He had been so relieved to see her alive and whole that he had not really registered the braids that now hung to either side of her face. Joyful disbelief bubbled up in his heart as he studied the intricate design, slightly worse for wear after the confrontation with the dragon, but still recognizable. He reached up to touch the silver beads, his hand shaking slightly.

“This is your father's sigil?” he asked quietly, slightly puzzled. “You carried them all the way from Emyn Uial?”

She gave him a sad smile. “Trisk did. They were my mother's.”

“Well, it is good to see you looking like a proper Dwarrowlass,” he teased gently, pulling her close so he could rest his forehead against hers. Closing his eyes, he held her tightly. “I thought you were dead,” he murmured, his voice choked with the emotions that he had buried during those long hours. “I watched Laketown burn, and I thought you burned with it.”

“I thought you were dead, too,” she replied softly. “Smaug implied that he had already killed the Company – he even knew Thorin's name.”

He pulled back, eyes wide. “Smaug spoke to you?”

“He taunted us,” she corrected, her face twisted with the memory of what had followed. “Trisk and I were trying to keep his attention off of Bard, so I challenged him, and Trisk managed to throw a knife and blind him in one eye. Then Bard fired the black arrow.” She gazed up at him, her eyes pleading. “Fíli, we have to help them. The people of Laketown have nothing left. Somehow, we must convince Thorin to help them. When the Orcs come, they will not stand a chance.”

He nodded wearily and pulled her tight against his chest once more, the smoky smell of her hair tickling his nose. “I know, _amrâlimê._ I do not know how, but we must do something.”

* * *

 

Bilbo had yet to get used to the stubborn, unyielding endurance of the Dwarven race. He knew most of the Company was still tired, the shocks and labors of the past few days piling up, but they set to work on the gate fortification with a will. Of course, the knowledge that the pale Orc was still hunting them probably lent some energy to their limbs, the Hobbit reflected. Still, there was no doubt that they could work quickly and well when the occasion called for it. Even Viska joined in once Óin had tended her limited hurts, working side by side with Fíli and Kíli. Fíli, for his part, kept checking to make sure she was still there, while Kíli watched his brother watch the lass, a sparkle in his dark eyes. Bilbo smiled to see the young princes in better spirits – Fíli's deep melancholy had alarmed him. Even now, there was a shadow over the small group, a constant reminder of their missing fourth, like the lines of sorrow on Viska's face. But there were signs of joy there, too, and determination, and Kíli had stopped to assure the concerned Hobbit that she would allow herself to properly grieve once the current crisis was over.

“Once the wall is built, Fíli and I will take her aside – possibly some of the others as well. We will be her family and sit with her while she lets him go. It is hard that his body burned with Laketown – Dwarves should go back to the earth.”

Bilbo helped with the construction as best he could, no more eager to have Azog's Orcs in the Mountain than any of the others, but he watched Thorin and wondered. Had the king ordered the building of the wall against the Orcs? Or against the refugees from Laketown who were even now working their way up toward the ruins of Dale? He had established a pattern – watching the progress on the wall for a time before returning to his search for the Arkenstone in the depths of the treasury. The second time that it happened, in the depths of the early winter night, Balin watched him go, then turned away, shaking his head, and Bilbo was stunned to see tears in the old Dwarf's eyes.

“It's the gold sickness,” Balin explained quietly. “It drove his grandfather mad, but I'd thought – I'd hoped Thorin would be able to withstand it, hold it at bay. I'd never have followed him here if....”

Bilbo offered him a weary smile. “Yes, you would have. And so would I, and all of the others. That is the type of leader that Thorin was.” The Hobbit frowned, thinking back to the conversation that he had overheard in Rivendell. “In fact, I recall Lord Elrond and Gandalf speaking of the possibility the night we left,” he mused. Then the exact words that the Elf lord had used swam into his memory and he turned to the old councilor, his eyes wide. “Lord Elrond was not worried about the gold, but the Arkenstone itself!” he blurted. “Gandalf assured him that it would not have any power over Thorin because he had never touched it. He seemed so certain.”

Balin blanched, realization spreading across his face. “Ah, Tharkûn, why did you not ask me?” he murmured, closing his pale blue eyes. When he opened them again, they were full of painful knowledge. “That is what I have been missing. I knew Thorin's behavior in Laketown reminded me of something.”

Bilbo stared at his friend in confusion as Balin lowered his head and stood a long moment in deep thought. Finally, the white-haired Dwarf met his gaze.

“Thank you for telling me about Lord Elrond's concerns regarding the Stone,” he said, reaching out to clasp the Hobbit's shoulder tightly. “I must think on this, and decide what is to be done. You and I will speak with the others when we can, Bilbo. For now, why don't you get some sleep? You look worn out. The lads will have this wall done before dawn, and you can take your turn at watch, if you like.”

“Yes, sleep sounds lovely,” the Halfling murmured softly. With a quiet word to the members of the Company, he headed for the small room he had claimed for his sleeping area. Once settled on his bedroll, he lay awake for a long time, staring up at the ceiling. Finally, he turned over on his side, back to the door, and pulled the cloth-wrapped bundle from his trouser pocket. Holding his breath, he unwrapped it carefully, revealing a large gem that shone with an inner light like the white hot heart of a forge, or the crystal glow of a distant star.

The Arkenstone.

* * *

 

_A dark figure stands in the bay outside of the hidden door, speaking softly to the feathered burden perched up on its arm. The raven quorks softly and ducks its head, accepting a tidbit of food from the tall Dwarf, then the figure's arm swings upward to give the bird a boost into the air. Black wings carry it into the darkness, but the figure that it leaves behind stays still for long moments, staring out over the landscape._

_The Arkenstone is here. It must be! Its song is so loud, so clear, so close! It rings through the halls, resonating through Erebor so thoroughly that he cannot pinpoint its source. It is a direct counterpoint to the Song of the Mountain, the two clashing in his mind when he touches flesh to stone. So he has stopped touching the Mountain. She will not help him find that which he seeks, and so he has no use for her. His hands are gloved to prevent accidental contact, and his kin notice this with bewilderment. They do not understand. To them, the Mountain was the goal, home. But he is the King. The Arkenstone sings to him, calls for him to take it and claim his birthright. They cannot understand. They are not rule_ _r_ _s. Even Fíli..._ _Kíli._ _..even his nephews, his heirs, do not understand. They are drawn to the Mountain, not the Stone; to security, not greatness. They lack the vision for loftier goals._

_With the dragon dead, it should have been so easy, but new threats rise to replace the old – Orcs, and Men. He is not so foolish as to believe that the survivors of Laketown seek only shelter from the coming winter. They want his treasure – gold, gems, the Arkenstone. But they will not have it!_

_Summons sent, he turns and reenters the Mountain, turning his steps toward the great armory._

* * *

 

Viska's first glimpse of the treasure of Erebor had been physically staggering. Never had she imagined so much gold. She had known that Thrór had been wealthy, but had only had a dim image in her mind of a large room stacked with chests of currency. The reality was a vast hall filled with hills and drifts of gold, jewels, and precious metals. Coins stamped with the unmistakable Durin profile formed the bulk of it, a lake of gold pieces with some silver mixed in. There were household objects made of valuable materials, golden platters, silver cups, alongside jewelry of the same, with glimmers of mithril. And the gems! Ruby, emerald, sapphire, diamond. Every torch's light reflected off of a thousand shining surfaces. In full sunlight, or even cool moonlight, it would have been blinding. Even by the light of the torches, it was hard on the eyes.

And ears. With fourteen Dwarves searching through the accumulated wealth, the treasure was constantly shifting, a never-ending jingle of metal and stone sliding over one another. They moved carefully, trying to keep too much from moving too quickly, but the sheer amount made it a difficult and dangerous task. They almost lost Bofur when he accidentally removed a silver goblet that turned out to be bracing the larger portion of a massive pile and the golden avalanche trapped him before he could move. It had taken half an hour of frantic digging to pull him free, the miner looking bruised and slightly panicked when he was finally out.

“Like a cave-in, that was,” he muttered, eyes wide as he tried to knock his hat back into shape. He spent the rest of his shift in the treasury on the outer edges, reluctant to test his luck near the larger piles.

“You know this task is impossible, right?” Viska whispered to her companions as night closed in, the second since her arrival at the Lonely Mountain. “We'll only find the stone by the sheerest luck! There's just too much to sort through.”

Fíli nodded heavily, stretching to relieve his cramped muscles. His hair hung in his face, the braids coming loose, and deep shadows pooled under his eyes. Kíli looked much the same, and their hands were covered in small scrapes and cuts from sharp metal edges, the skin dry and sore.

“I'm exhausted, and hungry, and tired of looking at gold – and I never thought that I would say that!” Kíli groaned.

“Well, our shift is over, _nadadith_ ,” the elder prince soothed, lending Viska a hand down from the pile where she stood. “Let's get our _cram_ from Bombur and get some sleep. That will help with two of the three, and you'll be able to face the gold again in the morning.”

“Tired of _cram_.” Kíli was clearly tired, as he was getting petulant and almost whining. “I want to go hunting, but it wouldn't even do any good. Nothing lives close enough, thanks to the dragon.”

“The land will heal in time,” Viska murmured, following the lads back toward the sleeping area. “There is much to do to restore Erebor, but the land will restore itself, now that the dragon is gone.” She sighed, scrubbing her face with one hand. “I want a bath. I can eat _cram_ for another week, if I must, but I wish I could be clean!”

They were entering the room they had set aside for sleeping, and Balin looked up with interest as he heard her last comment. He, too, was beginning to show the strain of dealing with Thorin's temper and the exhausting schedule, but he managed a small smile.

“That can be remedied, lass. We can heat water from the river. All of us could use a wash.”

 

A couple of hours and a dozen or so cauldrons of hot water later, the Company was as clean as they could manage with their limited resources. Viska chuckled as she peeked cautiously out of the side room where she had done her own bathing and avoided the general nakedness of her unashamed male companions. Bilbo looked positively blissful as he wandered off to his bedroll. Most of the others had cleared out of the room, either taking their turn in the treasury or going to take their own rest. Fíli caught her eye and waved, in the middle of combing out his long golden mane.

“It's safe,” he told her with a smile. “They're all dressed and off to sleep or search. Care to help me with my braids?”

She froze, staring at him, her cheeks flaming. A small stone suddenly clipped his ear and the prince yelped, clapping a hand over it and turning to stare at his brother. Kíli swatted him for good measure as soon as he was within reach.

“That was completely inappropriate, brother!” he scolded fiercely, yanking the comb out of Fíli's hand (along with several strands of hair, by the elder's wince). “You're not even courting! Besides, she doesn't know the braids,” he added with a wink at the flustered lass. “The double braids for his status as heir are a bit of a pain,” he confided. “Took me ages to learn, and he can't do them himself. He ties his hair in knots. Here.” He offered her the comb and motioned for her to take a seat on a block of stone, then shoved Fíli down to sit in front of her. “You can comb it out, and I'll teach you the braid, if you want.”

Viska hesitated, feeling overwhelmed with emotions – fear, excitement, embarrassment, and a deep thrill that she was trying not to examine too closely. Kíli suddenly stopped to study her face, concern in his dark eyes.

“You don't have to, Viska. Not if it makes you uncomfortable, _namad_.”

Fíli turned, looking stricken. “No! You don't have to do anything! I just – I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Mahal, I'm an idiot!”

She smiled, suddenly realizing that her eyes were full of tears. No wonder the princes had panicked.

“I'm not upset, _kurdê_. Just surprised, overwhelmed. I'm exhausted, and it was a bit sudden, but I would love to learn how to do your braids.”

The blue eyes sparkled at the endearment, but he held her gaze for another moment, searching for something, then he relaxed and a delighted smile spread across his face. Kíli chortled and sat down next to her as his brother turned around again and she began working the comb through the thick golden waves.

Viska could barely see straight when she finally collapsed in her bedroll. The braids weren't complex, but they were precise, and it had been intriguing to watch Kíli's nimble fingers weaving them almost effortlessly. She closed her eyes, remembering the silken weight of the golden mane slipping through her fingers, and fell asleep with a tiny smile on her face.

* * *

 

Raised voices and urgent movement in the great hallway woke Viska early the next morning, her second full day in Erebor. Blinking sleepily, she scrambled out of her bedroll and went to the door, just as Fíli and Kíli were approaching.

“What is happening?” she asked, falling in between them as they hurried toward the gate. The brothers looked strained and anxious, as did all of the Company, and a sick feeling was growing in the pit of the Dwarrowmaid's stomach. “Are the Orcs here already?”  
  
Fíli shook his head, taking her hand and squeezing it gently as he glanced over at his brother. “Ori had the watch. He says an army of Woodland Elves has set up camp outside of Dale. A rider approaches.”

“The Elves?” She frowned in puzzlement as they joined the others at the base of the barricade that they had built. Thorin stood atop it alone, watching the rider coming up the road. “Why would the Elves be here? The survivors of Laketown, I understand, but the Elves have no claim on Erebor.”

“Precisely,” Kíli muttered, dark eyes equal parts angry and worried. Fíli's arm went around the lass, warm and reassuring, and she leaned into his side. The younger prince hovered anxiously next to them, hands clenching and relaxing unconsciously. The other Dwarves looked similarly ill at ease, watching their king warily from the floor of the hall as he gazed out over the road. He had armed and armored himself sometime in the hours since they had seen him, and he was an imposing figure atop the wall. The hoof beats outside came to a halt and Viska let out a breath that she hadn't realized she was holding when a familiar voice called out greetings.

“Greetings Thorin, son of Thráin, King Under the Mountain! I am pleased to see you well. We feared for your Company's safety.”

Fíli's eyebrows shot up and he glanced at Viska. The lass smiled, mouthing Bard's name in confirmation, and he nodded. “Better him than the Master,” he murmured quietly. Above them, Thorin did not seem to share the sentiment. They could hear the sneer in his voice as he replied.

“Feared for our safety? You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe. Nor do I think that you are pleased to find us well.”

“The people of Laketown wished you no ill, my lord. Did we not aid you in your quest, giving you supplies for the last part of your journey?” Bard sounded confused and troubled. Thorin barked a laugh.

“Oh, but of course! Men are always eager to help when they believe there is gold to be had,” the Dwarf king retorted. “Do you deny that the Master of Laketown hoped that we would perish facing the dragon, leaving our gold unclaimed so that he might fill his pockets?”

The older prince sighed and Viska reached up to the hand that rested on her shoulder, twining her fingers with his. Blue eyes flickered to her face and he smiled slightly, then pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. Outside, Bard was countering the king's cold response.

“I cannot answer for the Master, and he has not been seen since the dragon descended, so he is not here to answer for himself,” the bargeman replied, leaving unspoken the fact that the dragon had attacked Laketown as a result of the Dwarves' actions. “I speak only for the survivors of Laketown. We seek what assistance you might be able to provide, for we have lost our homes on the edge of winter and the ruins of Dale offer little in the way of shelter. On behalf of the people of Laketown, I ask that you honor your pledge. A share of the treasure so that they may rebuild their lives.”

A low growl built in Thorin's chest. “I will not treat with any Man while an armed host lies before my door. Send the Elves away and then we may talk. Thranduil of the Woodland Realm has no claim on the treasure of Erebor.”

Bard sighed. “King Thranduil brought aid to my people – I cannot turn him away. He says that an heirloom of his house lies within, and that his armed host will attack the Mountain if we do not come to terms.”

A disturbing half-smile flickered across the king's face and he shook his head. “Your threats do not sway me.”

“And what of your conscience?” the Man replied. “Does it not tell you our cause is just? My people offered you help, and in return you brought upon them only ruin and death!”

“We will pay the folk of Laketown for their assistance – in our own time – and not under threat of force.”

* * *

 

The great armory of Erebor lay virtually untouched, being of little interest to Smaug and located down a series of corridors too narrow to have accommodated the beast. At Thorin's order, the Company lost no time in finding new weapons to replace the oversized and awkwardly-balanced items they had been given in Laketown. Kíli found a sturdy Dwarven bow that only wanted a bowstring, of which he still had several spares stowed about his person. There were plenty of arrows, so he filled up several quivers and set them aside before selecting a sword. His clever combination scabbard and quiver was long gone, but he managed to cobble together a workable alternative.

Fíli's twin falchions were a bit harder to replace, but Dwalin finally unearthed a set of matched blades that were close to the correct weight. The prince tested their balance before nodding in satisfaction, then starting rebuilding his collection of knives from the vast array available. Meanwhile, Viska was trying various long-swords, finally settling on a simple blade with an unadorned hilt. Belting the scabbard in place, she glanced over at Ori, who seemed a bit bewildered by the sheer variety of weapons.  
“I doubt you'll find a slingshot in here,” she teased gently. The scribe grinned and ducked his head, blushing slightly.

“I actually do have some training with a sword,” he admitted. “I'm just not sure how to pick one out.”

“Here you are, brother,” Nori exclaimed, joining then with a smile on his narrow face. He held up a sturdy short blade. “I think this will work for you, lad,” he told him earnestly. Then he sighed. “I should have fought Dori harder about getting you trained up, but at least you've got the basics. C'mon, let's spar a bit and see how much you remember. Care to join us, Viska?”  
  
She shook her head. “Perhaps later, but I don't want to upset Dori.”

Ori turned to her in surprise. “Oh, he isn't mad any more, Viska!” he exclaimed. “He was devastated when we thought you'd died! Said he wished he'd spoke to you before we left and cleared the air.”

Viska smiled, her heart lifting a little. She had hated being at odds with members of the Company, though she had been the one in the wrong.

“Glóin, too,” Nori added with a grin. “They both welcomed you when you came back, though I think you were a bit unfocused at the time, so you might not have noticed.”

“I didn't,” she admitted, “but it is good to hear. I will probably join you later, then.”

The thief nodded and led his brother off to where the others were already working. Viska watched them go, then turned to find Fíli watching her with a small smile. She arched a brow at him.

“Can I help you, my prince?”

He laughed and took her hand, tugging her toward the area that held the armor.

“Most of the others have already found some gear, and you'll be needing something more than a tunic and coat. Come on.”

Kíli was already there, sorting through shirts of chain mesh and pieces of plate. He glanced up as they came in and nodded to a pile he had set aside.

“Try those, brother.”

The elder prince nodded and picked out a chain mail shirt. He looked it over critically before handing it to Viska, waiting for her to try it on. She settled it on her shoulders and drew her new sword, taking a few experimental swings. Finally, she nodded and sheathed her blade.

“Not too heavy, and I can still move,” she declared. Fíli nodded, then began rummaging for one for himself as Kíli picked out bracers and shin guards.

The three young Dwarves were soon outfitted in sturdy, well-made armor that still left them able to use their agility and speed. Viska's smile had faded by the time they left the armory, though, as she looked beyond the preparations themselves to the reasons.

War was coming. She no longer had any doubt of that. The only thing that remained to be seen was who they would fight. She did not want to believe that Thorin would insist they take the field against the Elves and Men – it would insanity to start his rule in Erebor by making enemies of both neighboring peoples. If only he could be convinced that they needed to unite the armies, including Dáin's, to face the Orcs she knew were coming. Azog was out there, and she had a feeling that the coming conflict would prove to be even bigger than the pale Orc. Gandalf's continued absence worried her. The wizard had been very troubled just before he had left the Company at Mirkwood, and he had been adamant that he would rejoin them before they had to enter the Mountain. Whatever had kept him from doing so must be grave indeed.

So, Men and Elves waited outside, intent on claiming gold and jewels they felt (correctly or incorrectly) they were owed. Beyond, Dáin and an army of Iron Hills Dwarves marched to lend aid to the Dwarves of Erebor. And somewhere, Azog led unknown numbers as he sought to end the Line of Durin, possibly assisted by something even more terrible. All of this lay outside of the Lonely Mountain, danger and uncertainty enough for anyone to face.

And inside of the Mountain, a potentially great king spiraled deeper into madness, his mind shadowed by the dragon sickness so that he no longer knew friend from foe. She wasn't even sure when Thorin had last left the great hoard, pausing in his obsessive search for the Arkenstone.

“Bilbo!”

Kíli's greeting to the little Hobbit jolted Viska from her dark thoughts and she glanced up to see their friend giving them a wan smile. He looked pale and weary, fidgeting with a sparkling shirt of mesh draped over one arm. Fíli's eyes widened at the sight of it.

“Is that mithril?” he asked, lifting a corner to study it appreciatively. “Where did you find it?”

“Uh...Thorin gave it to me, actually,” the burglar admitted. “I feel ridiculous wearing it, but he said it was partial payment, so....” he trailed off, shrugging uncomfortably.

“It is the least you deserve, and a princely gift at that,” the elder prince replied with a smile, clapping the Hobbit on the shoulder. “True mithril is only found in Khazâd-dûm, and it was lost long ago. Wear it proudly, my friend, though I hope you won't need it.”

Viska studied the Halfling's face as he nodded, noting the nervous tic and the shadow in his eyes.

“What has happened, Bilbo?” she asked finally. “Did Thorin say something else to you?”

He sighed and shook his head. “The Arkenstone. Always the Arkenstone. Now he begins to believe that there is a traitor in the Mountain, someone working against him from within.”

The princes exchanged a startled, concerned look and Viska felt ice creep down her spine.

“That's insane,” Kíli argued. “He knows the Company is loyal. None of them would betray him! It makes no sense!”

“I'm not sure that Thorin is thinking clearly enough to realize that,” Fíli replied, his face troubled. “Would the uncle we knew in Ered Luin be preparing to go to war with Men and Elves over a share of gold? Would he be working us night and day to find the Arkenstone? Something is wrong, Ki, and it has been since we set foot on the Mountain, if not before.”

The dark prince nodded reluctantly after a long moment, his knuckles white where he gripped his bow. “What can we do?” he asked finally, his voice low and miserable. Fíli sighed and shrugged.

“I don't know, _nadadith_. For now, we'll go back to searching for the stone. Perhaps Gandalf will return soon and knock some sense into everyone. Go on ahead. I'll catch up.”

The younger prince hesitated a moment, then glanced at Viska and smiled before hurrying back toward the treasury. Bilbo followed without a word. The Dwarf lass watched them go, then turned a questioning look on Fíli. He grinned back mischievously and glanced around before darting through an open door into a small side room, dragging her with him. When he turned to face her, the wicked smirk had softened into something else – a tender expression that she had never before seen. His blue eyes were dark and serious, but joyous as he let go of her hand and reached up to run a gentle, calloused hand over her cheek. She closed her eyes, a tiny smile on her lips as she swallowed against the nervous lump in her throat.

“I'm not sure if this is the right time to say this,” he admitted, his voice low and slightly rough as she opened her eyes. “But I know that it needs to be said, and I won't risk running out of time. It has gone unspoken for long enough and some things need to be acknowledged, lest they be lost. I love you, Viska, daughter of Kulvik and Laika. You are my One, the other half of my heart, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you at my side, no matter what comes.”

She stared at him, lost for a moment in the forge fire of his eyes, blinking when her own filled with tears that made her vision swim.

“I love you, too,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

His smile broadened, lighting up his handsome face as he pulled something out of his pocket. Before he could speak, however, she put a shushing finger to his lips. His eyes flicked to meet hers, startled.

“Erebor holds to the tradition of Maiden's Choice?” she asked with a small smile. He nodded, eyes sparkling.

“In courting and betrothal, my lady.”

Her hands trembling, she carefully unsnapped the bead from her right braid. Taking a deep breath, she spoke the traditional words.

“Fíli, son of Torvi, will you consent to wear my courting braid for all of the world to see?”

“Viska, daughter of Kulvik, nothing would make me happier,” he replied, then smiled and pressed a kiss to her forehead before turning so she could work the braid into the golden hair behind his ear. When she was done, he returned the favor, combing out her right Maiden's Braid with his fingers before replacing it with the Courting Braid and snapping his bead into place. She stared at it for a long moment and he looked at her with concern.

“Viska? Are you alright?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, her hands moving in halting signs.

_Happy. Amazed. Sad. Miss my brother, my father._

“I know, love.”

He folded her into an embrace and she sank into the comforting warmth, listening to his heart beat steadily in his chest.

“You are my One, and I love you. I cannot replace what you have lost, but you will have a home in my heart forever. I even have a pesky little brother to share with you,” he finished with a smile. She laughed and pulled away slowly.

“We should join the others in the treasury before Thorin comes looking for us,” she said reluctantly. His eyes clouded, but he nodded and turned to start out of the room. With a sudden surge of mischief, she reached out and caught his sleeve.

“Fíli?”

“Hmm?” He glanced back curiously and she found herself staring, as she had in Beorn's orchard so long ago, at the fascinating frame of his mustache braids.

“We're courting now.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Does that mean that I'm entitled to a kiss? One that doesn't end with you falling out of a tree? Or me falling off of a bench?”

He laughed, a rich sound that filled the room and warmed the aching places of her heart. Stepping into his arms, she reached up to pull his face near, then shut her eyes and closed the distance.

Like the kiss in the orchard, it was soft, sweet, and hesitant...at first. Then it deepened and his hands slid up to tangle themselves in her hair, and her fingers were teasing his beard along his jaw. He growled, a low rumble deep in his chest, and she pulled back, trying to catch her breath. His eyes remained closed and he pulled her against him, smoothing her hair and humming softly to himself. “Why do you do that?” she asked curiously, twisting the edge of his coat in her fingers. His hands on her hair froze and the humming stopped as he opened his eyes and looked at her sheepishly.

“Do what?”

“The humming,” she replied. “I've heard you do it before, while we were traveling. You only do it when you look deep in thought.”

A faint flush crept up his face and he coughed, releasing her and stepping away slightly.

“I don't realize that I'm doing it,” he admitted, straightening his coat self-consciously. “Kíli had to point it out to me. I actually only do it when I'm thinking about you.”

She stared at him. “But you have been doing it for ages!” she protested. “Since the Misty Mountains!”

“Really? Then it took Kíli a while to say anything.”

She narrowed her eyes and studied his open, honest face. He looked genuinely embarrassed and she had to admit that it was nice to think that he had been thinking about her for so long. She gave him a small shy smile and shook her head, then turned for the door.

“You are impossible, but you are also endlessly charming, so I cannot even scold you. Now come on, before Thorin really does come looking and skin us both.”

 


	29. What Was Stolen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, comments/reviews/critique/feedback appreciated!

Kíli was hopping from foot to foot when his brother and the lass rejoined the Company in the treasury, a hopeful grin already on his face. The glow in Fíli's eyes and the embarrassed blush on Viska's cheeks answered his question before he even had to ask and the young archer lunged forward with a whoop to pound the golden-haired prince joyfully on the back. Fíli endured it for a few moments before shoving him away with a laugh and Kíli turned to offer Viska a gallant bow before giving her a warm hug that had his brother growling at him playfully. The Dwarrowmaid rolled her eyes at their antics, but gave the younger prince a smile and returned his hug.

Their moment of quiet celebration was cut short when Balin approached, his face troubled and reluctant. Kíli felt a chill go down his spine at the look on the elder Dwarf's face.

“My apologies, lass, but I need to borrow the princes,” he murmured, clasping her shoulder gently. Troubled green eyes met his gaze and she nodded quickly. He turned to the brothers.

“Your uncle has summoned you,” he explained quickly. “He's in the throne room, waiting for us.”

They exchanged a concerned glance, deep brown eyes meeting sky blue, before Fíli nodded slowly. The swordsman pressed a kiss to Viska's brow before they turned to leave, the younger prince following reluctantly. Balin led the way, lost in his own thoughts.

“What does he want?” Kíli asked after a few moments, sick with apprehension and nauseated by the fact that he actually feared his uncle's summons. Balin shook his head.

“He did not say, but there is only one thing in his thoughts of late.”

Fíli nodded grimly, his eyes shadowed.

“The Arkenstone.”

* * *

 

Thorin was a grim, glowering presence on the great throne of Erebor. He still wore the armor he had donned to speak to Bard that morning, and a rich, heavy cloak hung from his shoulders. The massive crown on his head was a marvel of Dwarven craftsmanship, several precious metals intertwined and worked with intricate designs.

“Is that-?”

Fíli nodded, answering his brother's unfinished question. He had never seen it before, but he had heard enough tales to recognize the Raven Crown that Thrór had worn when he ruled under the Mountain. According to _Amad's_ tales, it had been left behind, dropped in the struggle when Thráin dragged the protesting king from the halls of Erebor. It had undoubtedly found its way into the great hoard, and Thorin had found it. None among the Company would argue against his right to wear his grandfather's crown, or to sit on his grandfather's throne, least of all his nephew and heir. Still, a sense of unease slithered in Fíli's gut as he took in the scene before him. There was a darkness behind the sapphire eyes, a shadow over the grim lines of his face. Thorin had always been stern, each smile a rare gem to be treasured by his family, but there was little of the uncle that the prince remembered in the Dwarf lord before him.

He glanced around the room as they waited for Thorin to speak. Bilbo hovered at the edge of the gathering, one hand toying restlessly with some hidden trinket in his pocket. Dwalin was a soldier at ease, his dark gaze never still. Beside him, Balin looked older than ever, his eyes fixed on the king. The presence at Fíli's shoulder was his anxious brother, Kíli fidgeting as the silence dragged on.

“It is here in these halls. I know it.”

Thorin's voice was a low rumble that carried through the hall, startling the golden-haired prince after so long a silence. Bilbo flinched and shook his head, staring at the green marble beneath his feet. Balin sighed and Fíli heard his brother huff with annoyance.

“We've been searching for days,” the younger prince spoke up, ignoring Dwalin's look of warning. “We've dug through treasure nearly every waking moment since the dragon fell!”

“Yet it is still not found!” the king snapped, slamming a gloved fist down on the arm of the throne. The dark-haired lad tensed and opened his mouth to reply, but Fíli caught his arm, giving a tiny shake of his head to discourage his brother. Instead, Balin stepped forward, his hands held out in entreaty, his voice calm and soothing.

“The dragon is dead, Thorin,” the councilor pointed out carefully. “Smaug is dead. Erebor is won. The armies are not needed. The _Arkenstone_ is not needed.”

Thorin's dark eyes fixed on his old friend, a sneer creeping across his face. “That Stone is my birthright,” he countered, rising slowly to his feet. He did not move from in front of the throne, but the princes flinched back from the anger and distrust that thickened the atmosphere in the room. “It is the emblem of the leadership of the Seven Families.”

“Only because your grandfather made it so,” Dwalin countered with a growl. “None would deny your right to the throne, cousin. You are the heir of Durin, last descendant in the direct line of the eldest of the Seven Fathers. You have won back your kingdom – what is a Stone compared to that?”

Fíli shivered as his uncle turned that bruised gaze on the Arms Master, the king tilting his head curiously to the side in a gesture that reminded the prince of a big predator studying its prey. When Thorin spoke, his voice was a deceptive purr over iron.

“Why do you seek to dissuade me from the Arkenstone?” he murmured, that disturbing gaze flicking over each of them in turn. “Why do you try to placate me with less than my due? I _will_ have what is mine!”

Bilbo cleared his throat, shooting a distressed look at Balin. This was what the burglar had been trying to tell them, Fíli realized. Alone of the Company, the Hobbit had realized how far Thorin's madness had progressed. “Do you truly doubt the loyalty of anyone here?” the little fellow asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. “They are your companions, Thorin, your _kin_! They have stood at your side through every obstacle, every danger.”

“True, Master Burglar,” Thorin replied darkly, deep suspicion in every line of his face. “My kin. My blood. And every one convinced that he would make a better king than I.”

“No!” Fíli protested, stepping forward without thinking, his fists clenched at his sides. Dwalin's roar of denial drowned out Balin's quiet gasp of shock, but it was Kíli's incredulous yelp that rang through the hall.

“Are you MAD?”

Bilbo gulped and closed his eyes, shaking his head desperately, and the golden-haired prince's heart stuttered in his chest as his uncle's feral gaze fell on him and his brother.

_Oh, Ki,_ he thought sorrowfully, finally seeing the damage that had been done – the crazed greed, the suspicion. _Don't you see? That is exactly what he is._

“I. AM. YOUR. KING!” Thorin bellowed, striding toward the younger Dwarves so that Fíli shoved his brother behind him and Dwalin moved to put himself in his old friend's path. Thorin halted a few steps away, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his voice icy with promise. “The Arkenstone is the King's Jewel, and I am the king,” he growled. “I will have the Stone, no matter the cost in time or blood. And if anyone should find it and withhold it from me – be he companion, kin, or heir – _I will be avenged_.”

He stalked from the room without another glance at any of them, leaving Fíli standing there with heart pounding and Kíli's despairing whispers in his ears. The elder prince turned toward Balin pleadingly, only to see the faded blue eyes full of grief. It was Bilbo who broke the silence.

“Balin...if we found the Arkenstone...would it help Thorin, do you think?” he asked hesitantly. “Put his mind at ease so he can think clearly again?”

The councilor took a deep breath and let out a long sigh, then shook his head. “I doubt it, lad. I think it might just make it worse. My father once said that Thrór's madness increased tenfold once that stone was found. I'd not risk it. I can only hope that it is never found.” He glanced at Dwalin, who nodded shortly, before turning to Fíli. The prince felt his chest tighten at the look on his old teacher's face. “We must speak later this evening, you and I. Before it is too late.”

* * *

 

Viska sat alone on the ramparts above the great gate of Erebor, watching the campfires burning in Dale. The refugees of Laketown huddled there with what little they had salvaged from their destroyed homes, while the Elves of Mirkwood camped nearby. She had drawn first watch of the night and had relieved Bifur, who had given her a warm hug before leaving, signing heartfelt condolences for the loss of her brother. Well-meaning as they had been, the toy-maker’s remarks had only served to remind her that Triskel's body still lay in the burned remains of Laketown, if it had not sunk into the depths of the Long Lake with the fallen dragon.

“It's not right,” she muttered angrily to herself, staring out in the direction of the ruined town. “He should be returned to the Mountain!”

“That he should be, lass,” a gentle voice agreed behind her. “I've told Thorin the same, and I hope to convince him sooner rather than later, for your sake.”

She turned and offered Balin a sad smile as the elder Dwarf joined her on the battlement, looking weary beyond his years. Viska knew that he had been constantly at Thorin's side since her arrival, and probably before, sleeping only rarely and trying to soothe the king's temper and spare the rest of the Company. She wondered how long he would be able to keep it up.

“Thorin is getting worse, isn't he?” she asked bluntly. Balin gave her a surprised look and she wanted to bite her tongue. Who was she to speak so to a descendant of Durin, about another? About the king, no less? But Balin did not look angry. Rather, he smiled just a little as his gaze flitted to where the courting braid held Fíli's bead. He nodded in approval, though of the courtship or her question, she did not know.

“Aye, lass, he is,” the old warrior responded, just as bluntly. “He paces and snarls, and all but accuses us of deliberately withholding the stone.”

“Bilbo mentioned that. He cannot honestly believe that one of the Company would betray him!”

Balin sighed and shook his head. “He is not himself. He hasn't been since we set foot on this Mountain. I do not know what he might believe any more. He does not listen to the Mountain – he is too obsessed with the Arkenstone. I had hoped that without the ring....” He trailed off, looking alarmed as the scuff of a boot on stone heralded the arrival of another member of the Company. Viska thought fear flashed in his eyes as he turned, and it tore at her heart to think that Thorin could now inspire such in one of his oldest friends.

It was not Thorin on the stair, however, but a solemn-faced Fíli, and Balin relaxed with an audible sigh.

“What ring, Balin?” the prince asked quietly, moving to sit next to the Dwarrowlass. The adviser shook his head and shrugged helplessly. Viska leaned into Fíli's side as his arm settled around her shoulders.

“I don't know why Thorin never told you of it. How well do you remember the history of the Second Age? The Rings of Power, in particular?”

Fíli's eyes narrowed in thought. “They were tainted by the Enemy's influence,” he replied carefully. “Except those of the Elves, of course – not that the pointy-ears would admit otherwise. Some were given to each of the races, save Hobbits, who always seem to get left out of everything. The Dwarves had seven, one for each of the clans, so I guess that one of our ancestors had one. Why?”  
  
“Aye, our family had one. As recently as your grandfather, lad. Thrór wore the last of the Rings when Erebor fell, but he gave it to Thráin before the Battle of Azanulbizar. Thorin said that Gandalf asked him about it when they met in Bree, when this quest was decided upon. The Ring vanished with Thráin, of course. Thorin speaking of it reminded me of what happened to the Men who wore the Rings, and I wondered – hoped – that perhaps the Ring was why Thrór fell to the Dragon-sickness.” The elder Dwarf broke off and sighed heavily, shaking his head. “But Thorin never wore it, and....”

“...and he has fallen, anyway,” Fíli completed grimly.

“Aye. But I have been speaking to Master Baggins, and he had an interesting tale to tell.”

The golden-haired prince raised one eyebrow and met Balin's gaze.

“It seems that our burglar overheard a conversation between Gandalf and Lord Elrond, the night before we left Rivendell. Our host was concerned about Thorin being influenced by the Arkenstone. Gandalf never intended for Thorin to touch the stone – Bilbo was to hold it until the dragon was dead.”

Viska's mind was whirling, and she could see a thousand thoughts tumbling behind Fíli's eyes. The swordsman's brow was furrowed.

“The Arkenstone is the danger, then,” he said slowly. “Why did Gandalf never warn us?”

“He probably intended to do so,” the lass interjected quietly. “I don't think he ever meant to be away from the Company for so long. Doubtless, he thought he would have plenty of time to explain to Thorin.” She glanced at the councilor. “You said Lord Elrond was concerned about the Arkenstone's influence,” she commented. “What of Gandalf? Beyond his intention not to let Thorin touch it, could Bilbo tell if he was concerned?”

“He was not,” Balin replied, meeting her gaze steadily. “But I fear that is because he was not aware of Thorin's history with the Stone.”

“What do you mean?” Fíli demanded, narrowing his eyes. Viska took his free hand in both of hers, gripping gently. Balin sighed once more.

“I had forgotten, until Thorin's behavior in Laketown,” he admitted. “The headaches, the phantom music. Thráin had similar complaints in the months before Erebor fell. I remember my uncle and my father speaking in hushed whispers about it. They faded a few weeks into the Exile, but they began after he touched the Arkenstone.”

“So Gandalf thought Thorin would be safe, since he was so young when the dragon came,” Viska deduced, thinking quickly. “He thought Thorin would never have touched the Stone?”

Balin nodded, his face lined with grief. “Aye, lass. But Thorin did touch the Stone – only once, and only briefly. It was a foolish dare that I only learned about later. My fool of a brother dared him to creep into the throne room and touch the Stone above the great seat. Gandalf never asked, and I never thought to tell him.”

Fíli sighed gustily, pulling his hand gently from Viska's grasp to scrub at his face. “What if we found the Stone?”

The councilor shook his head. “I still believe what I told Bilbo. The Arkenstone would make it worse, as it did for Thrór when it was originally found. If we find it, we will lose him.”

“And if we do not, my uncle will lead this Company to ruin, unless the arrival of the Orcs changes something. You said that he is not listening to the Mountain?”

“No. He will not touch the stone, lest it distract him.”

Viska looked from one to the other in wonder. “It's true, then?” she asked curiously. “Erebor truly sings to the descendants of Durin? I thought it was one of my father's old tales.”

Balin nodded.

“Yes, lass, though it is more of a vibration that our minds read as a song, or so Gandalf told me. Erebor woke when Thráin I led his folk here out of Khazâd-dûm, and the tales say that she slept for a time when our people lived in the Grey Mountains, only to reawaken when Thrór led them back. The same happened with Thorin opened the secret door. She woke then – I felt it, as did the lads, and most of the others. But Thorin will not heed her.”

Sudden realization lit the Dwarrowmaid's mind and she turned to Fíli. “Is that the song that you always hum?”

“Ah, the romanticism of Durin's sons,” Balin chuckled. “You learned it from Dis? That's what Kíli used to bring you back in the forest, wasn't it? Yes, Viska. That vibration becomes such a part of us that our kin have always used it to tie our nearest to us, in a way. My father hummed it to my mother, and to Dwalin and I when we were wee things. And I guarantee that Glóin did the same for Fla and young Gimli.”

“When I was lost in the dream, in Mirkwood, the Song drowned out the enchantment of the Elf song and helped me come back to myself,” Fíli murmured, his eyes distant and thoughtful. “Thorin helped him at the end. I heard his voice join Kíli's.” He sighed and shook his head. “ _Amad_ told us some of this when we were very young, but Kíli and I always thought it was a story.”

“Until you felt it for yourselves. And who can blame you?”

“Ah, Bombur, come to take the watch?”

Fíli stood and tugged Viska to her feet as the cook plodded up the stairs. Bofur's brother gave them a tired smile, then covered a massive yawn.

“My turn, it seems,” he agreed. “Bifur was restless and took it up on himself to wake me. Apologies if I am late.”

“Not needed,” Fíli replied, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “We are all exhausted, and I'll not begrudge you a few extra minutes.”

“Especially when it's not actually his watch you are relieving,” Viska put in with a wry smile. “Peaceful watch, my friend.”

“Ah, I see, no one is going to keep me company?”

“I can, if you want,” Balin offered, but Fíli shook his head.  
  
“No, Balin, you sleep little enough as it is. Get some rest. Bombur, I can send-”

“No, lad,” the hefty Dwarf cut him off. “I was joking. I will be fine. You lot need to calm those busy minds of yours and get some sleep. We'll need all of the level heads that we can muster.”

Viska gave the cook a fond hug as she followed Balin toward the stairs and he caught her arm, holding her back for a moment.

“I'm truly sorry about your brother, lass,” he told her quietly. “But I am glad to see you safe. We feared for Fíli, if you were lost.”

Tears filled her eyes as she glanced over at the Dwarf that held her heart. “He would have survived, he still had Kíli,” she replied. “Those two are strong when they stand together.”

Bombur shook his head. “They are, and he would have survived, but he would never have been the same. The others, save for Glóin, are unwed, so they do not understand the bond as we do. They do not truly understand what it would have meant for him to have lost his One. His mother would, were she here, but for all of the loss in his life, Thorin never lost one to whom his heart was bound. Fíli would have survived, but he would have been forever changed. Thank Mahal you came back safely.”

* * *

 

Bilbo watched from a dark alcove as Balin, Viska, and Fíli made their way down from the battlements. A small smile teased across his face at the clear affection between the two young Dwarves. He, too, had noted the new braid that each wore, and a discreet question to Bofur had confirmed his guess. They were courting. Another reason to hope that his plan worked and conflict could be avoided. The burglar remembered the devastation in the elder prince's eyes when Laketown was burning and Viska lost, and he never wanted to see it again.

 

Bombur was on watch when the Hobbit slipped quietly up the stone staircase, a glum expression on the cook's face as he stared out into the night. He glanced around in surprise at Bilbo's approach.

“Did Fíli send you? I told him that I was joking.”

“No,” Bilbo assured him with a smile. “I couldn't sleep, so I came up to see if you wanted me to take your watch. No need in two of us sitting wakeful when only one is needed.”

Bombur's eyes brightened. “Are you certain? I could sleep, but-”

“Very certain,” the Halfling replied. “I cannot make myself even doze off, so I might as well be useful. Get some more sleep, Bombur. I do not doubt you'll need it, whatever tomorrow brings.”

The cook got ponderously to his feet and started for the stairs, clapping the Hobbit on the shoulder with one large hand. “Many thanks, Master Baggins. Peaceful watch.”

“Sleep well.”

Bilbo waited for Bombur to get all of the way down the stairs, the Hobbit fidgeting nervously with the gold ring in his pocket the whole while. Another, larger burden weighed down his trouser pocket, but that was one that he was trying not to think on overmuch. Finally, Bombur was out of sight. Bilbo stood for a long moment, staring into the depths of Erebor. The Mountain itself intimidated the Hobbit – he was made for the open air and green fields of the Shire, not the deep stillness of the Dwarves' home. But the Company had become his family over the past months, from gruff Glóin, always talking of his family back in the Blue Mountains, to quiet Ori, with his journal and sketches. How could it have come to this, where the only way to save was to betray? For Thorin would see it so, he had no doubt of that. Most of the others, as well. But the Orcs were coming, and they could not afford to waste time and allies.

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo let it out slowly, then turned to the battlement, where a rope was still tied for the younger, nimble Dwarves (Fíli, Kíli, Viska) to climb out to check the wall. Scooping the coil of the rope from the stone, he dropped it over the side and watched it unwind down to the ground. A moment later, he was over the side, climbing carefully down the rope until he could drop safely to the grass. Again, he paused for a long moment, staring up at the barricade that they had constructed from rubble and debris. A wall against the world. Then he turned and hurried off into the night, heading for the camp of the Elves, the Arkenstone in his pocket.

* * *

 

Bard of Laketown was beyond weary, so he was not best pleased when an Elf appeared at his tent to tell him that his presence was required by King Thranduil. Sighing heavily, he nodded and sat to pull his boots back on. He cursed silently when his movement disturbed Sigrid, who was curled up on a pallet with Tilda.

“Da?” she asked quietly, blinking sleep-clouded eyes. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. Go back to sleep. I'll be back soon.”

“You need to get more rest, Da,” she scolded gently, still half-asleep herself, and he chuckled softly at how much she sounded like her mother.

“I know, love. I'll sleep when I get back, I promise. Now, hush.”

With a last check on Tilda and Bain (and the little dog cuddled between them), he slipped silently from the tent and followed the Elf through the encampment. So far as he could tell, the Elves did not sleep, and their king looked the same by lantern light as he had during the day – alert and immaculate. He sat in his carved chair in the largest tent, eerie blue eyes fixed on a small, barefooted figure that Bard recognized as the quiet little fellow who had traveled with the Dwarves. The tall, gray-clad wizard that had arrived that afternoon was also there, a small smile on his weathered face as he smoked his pipe.

“Bard of Laketown,” the escorting Elf stated, ushering the bargeman in before he bowed and left. Thranduil nodded dismissively, then glanced at the Man with a strangely amused look on his face.

“It appears that we have a visitor, Master Bard. A member of Oakenshield's Company, come to treat with us.”

“This is Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit of the Shire,” Gandalf put in quietly, aiming a quelling look at the Elf king. “He is indeed a member of Thorin's Company, and he comes seeking to prevent needless conflict.”

“It will not come to that,” the Lakeman protested. “We will not attack them. Surely the Dwarves will see reason soon.”

The Hobbit gave a sad laugh. “Begging your pardon, Master Bard, but you do not know Thorin Oakenshield as I do. He will fight before he sees one piece of gold leave that Mountain. And the others will follow him, even if they do not agree. His mood is fell and dangerous, but he is their king.”

“And how do you think to stop it?”

“By bringing you the only thing he treasures above gold – the only thing you might use to bargain with him.”

He pulled a small bundle from his pocket and set it on the table, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a white gem that shone with a brilliant inner light. Bard stared as Thranduil started to his feet in surprise.

“The Arkenstone!” the Elf hissed, gazing in wonder. “The Heart of the Mountain!”

“And the heart of Thorin Oakenshield,” the Hobbit added sadly. “The King's Jewel.”

“Worth a king's ransom, or more,” Bard noted. He stared at the little man. “How is this yours to give?”

Bilbo fidgeted uncomfortably. “I was promised a fifteenth share of the treasure, with no stipulations, so I claimed this. I believe that Thorin will trade a share of the gold for this Stone. We cannot afford to fight amongst ourselves. The Orcs are out there, somewhere.”

The Elf king had regained most of his poise and a contemptuous look crossed his face at this statement. “So the wizard says, but I have seen no evidence of such.” Bilbo looked around at him in disbelief.

“But, they attacked Bard's home in Laketown, Viska told us.”

“Aye,” the Lakeman put in, staring at the Elf. “She and her brother protected my children, with the help of two Elves. Have your people not told you of this?”

The king shrugged, looking unconcerned. “Legolas and Tauriel sent me word that they were scouting North after an Orc attack, but an attack by a small band does not mean that a larger army is on its way. Mithrandir claims these Orcs sought to prevent the Mountain being retaken. They have failed.”

The wizard shook his head. “Did you miss the part about Azog paying homage to Dol Guldur? To the Necromancer? To Sauron? Do not be a fool, Thranduil!”

The Elf's eyes were chips of ice as he addressed his comments to the incredulous Man. “I imagine that you have had little experience with wizards, Bard of Laketown, but you will come to learn that they are fond of delivering dire warnings and gloomy prophecy.”

Gandalf's eyes sparked. “You will also learn, Master Bard, that certain Elves are pompous, arrogant, and pigheaded to the point of folly!”

Unwilling to get further caught up in the quarrel between the two powerful beings, Bard turned to the Hobbit, studying him curiously.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, seeing the conflict in the small man's face. “You owe us no loyalty.”

Baggins sighed and shook his head. “I'm not doing it for you,” he explained. “I am doing it for them. Dwarves are stubborn, and obstinate, and secretive, but they are also brave, kind, and loyal to a fault. They are merchants, husbands, fathers, sons...a prince and his beloved. They have become my friends – even Thorin, and I will not let him lead them to a bad end if I can help avert it. They do not deserve it.”

Bard nodded, aware that the Elf king and the wizard had fallen quiet listening to the short speech. For all of his bloodline, descended from the Lord of Dale, Bard considered himself a simple Man, and the disputes of the great were far outside his ken. He was only a bargeman, after all, a father seeking to protect his children. This, though, he could understand.

“And that, my dear Bilbo, is why I chose you for this journey,” Gandalf said quietly, a fond look on his aged face. He glanced at the others. “Can we at least agree to accept the offer that Master Baggins has set before us?” he asked. “Will we try to bargain with Thorin?”

After a long moment, Thranduil nodded curtly. Bard followed suit, watching as their guest relaxed slightly.

“Very well. Now that's settled, I need to return to the Mountain before I'm missed.”

“You can't go back!” Bard protested, relieved when the wizard echoed him.

“It is too dangerous, Bilbo,” Gandalf told him. “When he sees that we hold the Arkenstone, I do not know what he will do. Especially if he realizes that you handed it over to us and not him.”

“I don't fear Thorin,” the Hobbit told him firmly.

“You should.”

“No, Gandalf – I said that they are my friends, and I meant it. I will not hide out here. I did not make this decision lightly, and I will take the consequences, whatever they may be.”

* * *

 

A small figure crept up the rope at the Great Gate, keeping to the shadows as he scrambled over the battlement and pulled the rope up after him. Turning to look out over the slope that led down to the ruins of Dale, Bilbo Baggins sighed heavily. Hopefully, his actions would avert a war between the Dwarves, Elves, and Men...but how much longer before the Orcs arrived? He did not doubt Viska's word, or Gandalf's warning. He just hoped that they would have time to prepare.

 


	30. Come Unto His Hall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - A thousand apologies for the super-late update. I have no excuse, except that the chapter was fighting me. I don't think I'm completely satisfied even now, but here it is, anyway!

_Bilbo's aren't the only eyes that watch the small group descend from the battlements. There is a thrill of joy in the deep recesses of his mind, where Thorin still retains some shred of himself. The greater part of him, however, is given over to the Arkenstone's influence, and that part is lost in suspicion and anger, finding only a threat._

_Do_ _es_ _she think he_ _does_ _not see? That he_ _does_ _not notice the warm looks, the sweet smiles, the lilting laughter? Day by day, she worm_ _s_ _her way deeper into the hearts of the Company. Day by day, she_ _draws_ _his heirs further from the one that deserve_ _s_ _their loyalty, corrupting their hearts._

_With a low snarl, he turns from the scene in the entry hall and returns to where he feels most secure – the Great Treasury. There, he basks in the glow of the fire-lit gold, filling his senses with the power of possessing. It is all his – gold, jewels, kingdom – and once he has the Arkenstone in hand, none will stand before him. Not his kin. Not his heirs. Not the arrogant Elf king, or the sanctimonious wandering wizard._

_It may be hours or moments before he falls into a dream of power and riches, subject to the weakness of his physical body. It is_ _well past_ _midnight when he shifts restlessly in his sleep, displacing stamped golden coins as he stirs. He does not wake, his exhaustion too deep to release him quite yet, but his dreams are altered, responding to the change in the song of the Arkenstone._

* * *

 

Kíli had the dawn watch, and he was waiting impatiently for his replacement when he spotted the approaching riders. He might not have Elven sight, but the young archer was keen of eye for a Dwarf and it was not difficult to pick out Bard's familiar form. He had not seen the Elf before, but it could only be the king, Thranduil, poised and arrogant astride a massive forest elk. The dark-haired prince did not study the party further, turning instead to Bofur as the miner reached the battlements.

“We have visitors,” he announced soberly, his gut churning at the thought of how his uncle might greet this new embassy. Bofur grimaced, his gaze going beyond the prince's face long enough to mark the arrivals.

“I'll take word to the king, lad,” the hatted Dwarf commented quickly. He turned away, pausing when Kíli spoke again.

“If you wouldn't mind, Bofur, fetch my brother and my kin, as well. The more cool tempers we have for these negotiations, the better.”

The miner gave him a speculative look, sorrow and understanding the dark eyes as he nodded. “Aye, your highness,” he agreed with a small smile. “I'll wake Prince Fíli and the Lords of Erebor on my way.”

The young prince gave a brief nod of acknowledgment, trying to mask his shock at hearing the titles from his old friend. As Bofur hurried back down the stairs, the youngest Heir of Durin turned to stare back out over the land before the Great Gate.

He had his gaze fixed on the three riders when heavy tread on the stone alerted him to his uncle's arrival, Fíli and Balin on his heels. Giving the dark-haired prince a dismissive look, Thorin strode to the center of the battlement and glared imperiously down at the visitors. Kíli groaned quietly and fell back to his brother's side, trying to muster a reassuring smile for Viska. The lass merely shook her head fractionally, her face pale and eyes dark with concern. Fíli's followed the king.

“Why come you to the Gates of Erebor?” Thorin demanded, his sapphire eyes sparking with anger. “Did I not warn you that we would have nothing to discuss until Thranduil and his army returned to the Woodland Realm?”

“We come to treat with the King Under the Mountain,” Bard replied warily, his gaze flickering over the Dwarves gathered to either side of their irascible monarch. Kíli felt a dull ache of guilt in his gut, but he knew he had no other choice. Thorin was the eldest of Durin's Line, the rightful king, and his uncle – to defy him was to betray every bond of his family and his people.

“There will be no negotiations so long as the Elves stand ready to besiege this Mountain!” Thorin countered.

“We need no negotiation,” Thranduil replied smoothly, his face icy and remote. “We thought only to offer the King Under the Mountain an opportunity to redeem the payment that was offered and accepted.”

Kíli felt his brother tense at his side, saw Thorin go absolutely still for a moment, heard the whispers of confusion among the Company. Then the king drew himself up regally and smirked down at the Elf.

“You have nothing that I want,” he retorted, the smirk spreading into a cruel, dismissive smile that chilled his nephew to the bone. “I have the Mountain, and the treasure within. What could you possibly have to offer?”

“This.”

The third rider, a nondescript figure in a gray hooded cloak, produced a small chest from the depths of his pockets and opened it, holding it out for all to see, and time stopped.

It was as though he had captured one of the distant stars, for the light that shone from within the chest was of all colors and none, a mesmerizing glow that called to the very soul. Kíli only became aware that he had stopped breathing when his lungs began to ache for air, and he gasped noisily, echoed by those around him. Time began to move once more, whispered exclamations and anxious conversations breaking out among the Company.

“It can't be!”

“How?”

“ _Mi targê!_ ”

“Mahal, no....”

“It's a lie!” Glóin burst out angrily, stepping to Thorin's side. “A trick!”

“Aye, a fake!” his brother agreed. The archer could not read their expressions, could not tell if they truly believe what they were saying, or if they were trying desperately to forestall the king's fury. In the end, it did not matter. Thorin ignored them, his attention locked upon the shining stone, recognition in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low, a deadly rumble that stilled all other conversation.

“No. It is real. I can feel it.”

* * *

 

The golden-haired prince glanced at his uncle, chilled by the hostility lurking in the depths of his voice. The sapphire eyes were ice as Thorin glared at the Man and Elf.

“How came you by the Arkenstone?”

“I gave it to them!”

Fíli stared at the Hobbit in shock, gripping tightly to Viska's hand when it crept into his. Bilbo looked pale, but determined, facing Thorin with a grim look on his usually gentle face. The other members of the Company were frozen with expressions ranging from anger (Dwalin, Glóin, Nori) to disbelief (Ori, Bofur, Óin) to sorrow (Balin, Bombur, Dori). Bifur's expression was inscrutable – Fíli couldn't even be sure that the toymaker knew what was happening. Kíli had his eyes closed, face ashen, and was shaking his head in denial. Viska's eyes glistened with tears and her lips moved soundlessly, her hand locked on his arm in a painful grip.

Fury raged in Thorin's eyes such as Fíli had never seen and the king lunged for the burglar, grabbing him by the coat and hoisting him up before any of them knew what was happening.

“ _You_? _You_ have betrayed me thus? Handing over the most treasured possession of my kingdom to my enemies? Faithless traitor! I will cast you from the battlements, thief!”  
Fíli was already stepping forward, a protest on his lips, but Viska moved first.

“Thorin, no! My king, please – Bilbo has ever been a true and loyal companion! At least hear his reasons before you condemn him!”

Fiery eyes turned on the lass, the familiar handsome features contorted in rage. For the first time in his life, Fíli feared his uncle, and his heart froze to see his beloved trying to come between the furious king and the object of his anger.

“Tread lightly, daughter of Kulvik,” Thorin hissed. “Lest I conclude that you had a part in this betrayal.”

“NO!” Bilbo gasped, spluttering and choking as he tried to catch his breath.

“I knew nothing of the Halfling's plan,” she argued calmly. “I did not know he had even found the gem. Have I not been searching for it this whole time, side by side with the rest of the Company?”

“Side by side with my heirs, you mean,” the king countered, his grip on Bilbo's coat slackening as he focused his attention on the Dwarf lass. Fíli felt a sick fear in the pit of his stomach and was edging forward oh so slowly, reluctant to be out of reach of his One when she was so close to his raging uncle. “Do you think I haven't seen how you cling to their sides, close as a shadow? How you have wormed your way into their affections? Why settle for a sixteenth share when you could ensnare an heir of Durin?”  
  
“Fi!”

Kíli's whisper and hand on his shoulder brought the prince back to himself, suddenly aware that he was growling deep in his chest, every muscle tense as he sought to shield Viska from Thorin. His brother's grip barely restrained him, and the look on the dark prince's face told him that if it became necessary, they would intervene together. The lass kept her attention on the king, her eyes and posture conveying respect, but also determination.

“I had no such plan, my king, and the only lie of which I am guilty is in seeking to pass as a lad so I might help win back the Mountain where my fathers dwelt.”

Thorin had released the Hobbit by this point and Bilbo was staggering back to catch his balance, horrified gaze locked on the confrontation between king and Dwarrowmaid.

“I only wanted to prevent a battle,” the burglar murmured. “I thought if I claimed the stone as my share, Bard could exchange it for enough to help the Lakemen. I only wanted to save lives...Men, Elves, and Dwarves should not be fighting, not when there are so many other enemies. Not when the pale Orc is out there.”

“Regarding which we only have this liar's word,” Thráin's son snarled.

“What reason would she have to lie?” Kíli burst out, incredulous. “The people of Laketown have _nothing_ , Thorin!”

The king's gaze never left Viska. “You seek to turn my kin against me, while the Halfling hands over the greatest treasure of my house to my enemies.”

“It is a gem, Thorin! A stone! Nothing more!”

His hand cracked across her face before anyone could move, sending her sprawling on the stone floor. Fíli suddenly found himself restrained by Dwalin, who was staring at the king in horror. Nearby, Glóin was holding Kíli, while refusing to look at Thorin. Balin looked stricken, and Ori was weeping. Thorin ignored them all.

“It is the King's Jewel, the Heart of the Mountain, the most valuable thing in this kingdom!!”

Her cheek already swelling and blood trickling from where his ring had gashed open her face, Viska met Thorin's gaze with sorrow-filled eyes.

“Then you have lost yourself, Thorin Oakenshield,” she replied, “for once you would have named your people thus. Once, you would have called your heirs the greatest treasures of your house. Now, you are sunk in the dragon sickness and cannot see the worth of those around you.”

Rage filled the king's face and he stepped forward as the Dwarf lass stared at him. Before he could speak, however, something seemed to catch his gaze.

“What is _that_?”  
  
The deep blue eyes narrowed, then widened in incandescent fury as he drew a knife and reached forward...for Viska's courting braid. Now, the Dwarrowmaid did pull away, and Fíli shrugged Dwalin off as though he were no stronger than the Halfling. In a heartbeat, he stood between his uncle and the lass, blade bared as he snarled at Thorin. Behind him, Kíli was pulling Viska to her feet, his own sword in hand. She stepped to Fíli's side and he pulled her to his shoulder, his free hand going to her braid protectively even as he shook his own golden mane back to show the one he wore. Thorin stared at them, then fixed his gaze on Viska.

“Get out.”

“Uncle?” Kíli sounded bewildered and horrified, but the king's eyes never left the lass standing by his nephew.  
  
“Unhand my heir, and get out of my Mountain,” he snarled. “Take the traitorous Halfling with you, or I will execute you both. Go to your allies. Go to the Men, and the Elves. They will have their gold for the Arkenstone, one sixteenth to be counted your share, and good luck to you in seeing any of it. Now, get out of my sight.”

Bilbo was already moving, Bofur hustling him toward the edge of the battlement where the rope still hung for getting in and out of the Mountain. Fíli protested as Viska struggled to her feet. She hushed him with a quick kiss pressed to her fingertips and then to his lips.

“Farewell, my heart.”

He got to his feet and watched her bow to Thorin, then turn to follow the Hobbit. A torrent of emotion churned through him, finally coalescing into an icy certainty. He gave his brother a single look and Kíli froze, reading his intention in his eyes.

“I'm sorry, _nadadith_ ,” he murmured. Kíli shook his head.

“I understand, _nadad_. Go with my love.”

With a last sad smile for his brother, Fíli turned on his heel and hurried after Viska, wrapping an arm about her shoulder. Startled green eyes flitted to meet his gaze.

“Fíli...you can't....”

“I cannot watch you walk away. Not again.”

“FÍLI!”

Thorin's bellow stopped them both mid-stride and Bilbo halted in the act of starting down the rope. Bofur waved him on urgently and the Hobbit grimaced in sympathy before disappearing from sight. Fíli hugged Viska tightly before turning to face his uncle.

“Get back here,” the king ordered. “You are my heir, Crown Prince of Erebor!”  
  
“I am Fíli, son of Dís, not your possession,” he countered, nausea churning his gut and pain in his heart as he stared at the Dwarf he had always admired above everyone else. “I lost my One once, and she came back to me beyond all hope. I will not lose her again, not for all the gold in Erebor. Not even for you, my uncle and my king. Since she is banished, I go with her.”

“If you leave this mountain, you are no longer my kin.” The rich voice was icy with promise and the golden prince nodded shortly.

“So be it. Make Kíli your heir – he is more than capable.”

“No!” Kíli protested. “I will go with you, brother!”

Fíli reached for his brother and for a long moment, they held tightly to one another.

“Stay here, _nadadith_ , as long as you can,” Fíli told him quietly. “You and Balin need to be Thorin's reason for now. Be safe.”

Kíli nodded and pressed his forehead to Fíli's, tears on his cheeks. “Be well, _nadad_. And take care of my new sister.”

“With my life.”

Kíli dashed away the tears as Fíli released him and the dark-haired archer stepped back, spine straight and eyes fierce, then reached out abruptly to pull Viska close for a bare moment.

“Love well, _namad_. Love long. Be my brother's treasure.”

“Take care of yourself, Kíli. Be your uncle's conscience.”

“Lad,” Balin muttered in warning. Fíli's eyes flickered to his uncle's face and he nodded shortly, pulling Viska gently away from his brother and leading her toward the rope. She clambered quickly over the parapet and started down. Bofur clapped Fíli briefly on the shoulder, dark eyes filled with grief.

“I wish you all the luck in the world, lad,” he whispered. Fíli nodded and climbed over the wall, taking one last look at his companions before he started down the rope. Thorin had turned his back and was yelling down at the leaders who had come to parley. Balin was at his side, looking resigned and hopeless. Dwalin hovered by his brother, looking unsure for the first time the fair-haired prince could remember. Dori had an arm around his youngest brother as Ori wept silently, and Nori looked troubled, toying idly with a small dagger. Glóin was studying the floor, while Óin stared at the king with sorrow on his face. Bombur was downcast, standing close to his cousin as Bifur signed a quick _Be well_. And Kíli...dear Kíli, the other half of his soul, the other side of his coin. Kíli stood tall and proud, messy hair swept out of his face, dark eyes alight with purpose. With a final nod to his brother, Fíli descended the rope, leaving behind his kin, his people, and his birthright to follow his heart and his conscience.

* * *

 

Balin stood with his eyes closed, blocking out the sight of the mad rage that twisted the face of his cousin, his king, as Thorin bellowed at the riders at the gate. Despair and grief chilled the old Dwarf's heart.

“I am betrayed by within, and left with no alternative but to bargain for what is rightfully mine.” Every word was a hurled insult in the Dwarf king's rumbling voice, an avalanche of contempt and hatred. “I will give a sixteenth part of the treasure, that which was promised to the _akd_ _â_ _muthrab_ , since this is what he has chosen for his share. The rat himself, I send out for you to do with as you see fit.”

“And these others? I see two Dwarves descending the rope, as well,” the Lakeman asked quietly. There was a hesitation and Balin ventured to open his eyes, hoping against hope that his king might be struggling with his decision. But Thorin's jaw was set and his eyes were steel.

“Traitors, exiled in disgrace,” he replied curtly, ignoring Kíli's indignant protest and Dori's dismayed gasp. “They are of Durin's folk, and thus are mine to judge and sentence. They have forfeited all claim to the treasure and lands of Erebor through their actions. Welcome them or banish them, I care not.”

The old councilor groaned and shook his head as a ripple of dismay ran through the Company. Turning his head slightly, he met his brother's gaze and found anguish and determination in the dark eyes as Dwalin nodded. Before he could seek the same agreement from Glóin and Óin, the third rider threw back his hood, his familiar voice ringing through the still morning air.

“You are making a poor figure of a king, Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf commented sadly. “Is it wise to begin your rule by making enemies of your nearest neighbors?”

Thorin sneered. “Ask rather if it is wise for my nearest neighbors to court the anger of the King Under the Mountain, wizard. I should have known that you would arrive well after the dragon was dealt with, siding with the Elves in their greedy machinations! I should have cast the burglar down to you, rather than allowing him to scurry out on his own feet. Never again will I have dealings with wizards or Shire-rats! You will have your gold and silver at tomorrow's sunrise.”

Bard nodded shortly, reaching out to close the lid of the wooden chest that Gandalf carried.

“Then the Arkenstone will be returned to you at sunrise.”

* * *

 

Viska found Bilbo waiting when she reached the ground, his kind eyes looking pained as he took in the swelling lump on her face.

“I am so sorry,” the Hobbit muttered miserably. “I never meant for you to get caught up in that. It was all me, I didn't think Thorin would-”

“It is alright,” she cut him off, managing a painful smile as she listened to Thorin's shouted conversation with Bard and the others. “It is hardly your fault. Thorin has not trusted me since Mirkwood, and the dragon sickness has a strong hold on his mind. He is not himself. Had I kept silent, things might have been different.”

“Perhaps,” Fíli grunted, dropping to the ground next to them. “For now. But once Bilbo left, perhaps he would have found other crimes to lay at your feet. No, Master Burglar, you and Viska are well out of his reach, and I think it is for the best. If I could, I would get all of the Company away from him until he comes to his senses.”

Viska stared at him in silence, unable to believe that he had walked away from everything to stand by her side.

“Fíli....” She stopped, unsure what to say. He smiled softly, his blue eyes lighting up as he reached out to stroke her cheek, smoothing the thin braid at the side of her face. In spite of her grief, she felt a small thrill at his touch and a swell of love in her heart.

“All will be well, Viska. Kíli and Balin will try to reach him, reach the _real_ Thorin. Come, I want to speak to Bard and Gandalf.”

She nodded and let him draw her to his side as they followed Bilbo toward the little group that waited before the gate. Viska leaned into Fíli's warmth, drawing comfort from his presence as she met Gandalf's kind eyes, Bard's compassionate dark gaze, and the unnerving, unearthly blue orbs of the Elf King of Mirkwood. He had one elegant brow lifted.

“Master Halfling, who are your companions? I assume this is the she-Dwarf and one of the members of Oakenshield's Company that you helped escape from my dungeons?” Viska nodded tightly.

“I am Viska, daughter of Kulvik and last of his line.”

“Viska, friend to Laketown, who defended my children from Orcs and got them out when Smaug descended,” Bard elaborated with a small smile. “And Fíli, nephew and heir to Thorin Oakenshield, if I am not mistaken.”

“Fíli, son of Dis, daughter of Thráin, though now disinherited and disowned,” the prince replied with a slight bow. Viska winced at his light tone, a pang in her heart, but he tightened his arm about her comfortingly. A troubled look crossed Gandalf's face and the Elf King looked surprised. Bard's eyebrows rose.

“Disinherited? For what crime? It was the Halfling who brought us the stone.”

“I think we'd best discuss this back at the camp,” Gandalf interrupted. “I would offer our friends rides, but I doubt either of the Dwarves would ride with the king.”

Thranduil sighed and nodded. “I will carry our esteemed Hobbit, if he has no objections.”

Bilbo looked a little flustered, but did not protest, so he was lifted up behind the Elf King on his great elk. Gandalf took Viska up behind him, and Fíli rode with Bard. The wizard gave him a disturbed look as they trotted back to the encampment.

“It troubles my heart to see you without your brother,” he confessed quietly. “Kíli would not come with you?”

Viska's heart clenched as she saw the pain in her beloved's eyes.

“He would have, yes, but I asked him to stay,” Fíli admitted. “Perhaps he and Balin can guide my uncle back to himself. He will remain in Erebor as long as he can, but he will join us if it becomes necessary.”

“Then we must hope that he will not leave it too late,” Gandalf replied. He refused to elaborate on the comment and they finished the ride in silence, dismounting in front of a large tent with simple, elegant lines. The wizard helped Viska down carefully, then turned to stop a passing Elf and send him on an errand before turning back to her.

“Bard told me of your brother's sacrifice,” he murmured. “You have my deepest sympathy for your loss.”

She nodded and moved back to Fíli's side, ill at ease until his arm was once more securely around her waist. They followed the tall folk into the tent quietly and took seats on low stools inside. Viska leaned into Fíli's shoulder and saw a small smile cross Gandalf's face as he watched them. She felt a slight blush warm her cheeks and he chuckled. Fíli gave him a startled glance.

“It is good to see the two of you happy and together,” Gandalf answered his unspoken question. “I worried about Viska, once I realized the truth – I hoped she would be safe on the expedition, but certainly did not expect her to find her One. You are well matched, Fíli, and I offer my congratulations.”

Fíli smiled and nodded graciously as Bard added his blessings, as well as a fond smile at Viska. The Dwarf lass chuckled when her prince eyed the bargeman with a hint of jealousy. Bard saw it, too, and smiled at him.

“She and her brother saved my children from the Orcs and the dragon, Prince Fíli,” he commented gently. “Your lady will always be counted a friend to Dale and Esgaroth, and I rejoice to see her so happy after her recent sorrow.”

Fíli's face cleared and he bowed his head slightly. “Your pardon, Master Bard. Dwarves are protective of their treasures, whether gold or living. I also understand from my lady that we have you to thank for the dragon's demise. Though I am no longer my uncle's heir, I offer you thanks on behalf of the Dwarves of Erebor, as well as my deepest apologies. We had no intention of setting him on your folk.”

“And why, exactly, have you been disinherited?” the Elf King asked coolly. Bilbo shifted on his seat.

“I'm afraid that's my fault.”

“No,” Viska corrected sharply. “Thorin lost his temper when Bilbo confessed to giving you the stone,” she explained. “I was the first to intervene and he could see only the lass who had lied to him from the Shire to Mirkwood. He lashed out.”

“Literally,” Fíli rumbled. A silent Elf had provided him with a bowl of clean water and a cool compress that he now touched to her face gently.

“He banished me from Erebor,” She continued, choking a little. “When Fíli determined to go with me, Thorin disowned him.”

He is deep in the sickness that took Thrór,” Fíli murmured, a lost look in his eyes. “I hope Kíli and the others can help him find himself again.”

“I did not anticipate this,” the wizard confessed, confusion on his face. “I knew that the draw of the Arkenstone was a strong one, but Bilbo never handed it over to Thorin. It should not have been able to take hold of him like this – it's not as though he has ever touched it!”

“But he has.”

Gandalf froze, staring at Fíli in consternation. “What?”

The fair-haired prince sighed and shook his head. “Balin told us last night. When Thorin was little more than a Dwarfling, before the dragon came, one of his cousins dared him to sneak into the Throne Room and touch the Arkenstone.”

“By the Valar,” Gandalf murmured, pain in his aged voice. “I never knew. Thráin said he had warned his children away from the Stone.”

“He did. I remember that from _Amad's_ tales,” Fíli agreed quietly. “But Thorin was young, and stubborn, and a dare from one of his cousins would have been difficult to ignore.” He sighed and settled his shoulders, turning his brilliant blue gaze on the wizard. “Mistakes were made,” he acknowledged grimly, “On all sides. The past cannot be changed – all that we can do is make the best choices moving forward.”

Bard cleared his throat, reminding them of his presence abruptly. “Thorin has agreed to ransom the Arkenstone,” he pointed out. “Once, I would have trusted his word, but now I must ask – will he truly follow through with his promise?”

Viska and Fíli shared a glance and she shook her head reluctantly. “He set it for tomorrow morning to buy himself some time,” she explained.

“Dáin is on his way from the Iron Hills,” Fíli continued grimly. “With five hundred of his warriors. Thorin sent for him when the dragon fell, claiming the Arkenstone was found and the throne was his. He will have sent ravens to hurry him along since the Elves arrive. He expects them by dawn, at the latest.”

Bilbo glanced at them in surprise.

“That's good, isn't it?” the Hobbit asked. “I mean, a Dwarf army to help fight against the Orcs?”

“Yes, but that is assuming that we can convince them to fight with us and not against us,” Fíli replied. “And we've no idea when the Orcs will arrive.”

“Tomorrow, before the sun reaches midday.”

Viska startled at the new voice, and turned with a soft cry of relief to see two familiar figures stepping into the tent.

“Tauriel! It is good to see you safe, my friend!”

The fire-haired Elf spared the Dwarrowmaid a quick smile, then bowed to her king and took up a deceptively relaxed military stance. Her companion, the golden-haired Elf prince, nodded respectfully to the assembled leaders and met his father's surprised gaze.

“Gundabad is emptied,” he announced bluntly, his face grim and jaw set. “Bolg, spawn of Azog the Defiler, leads the legions toward Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain. They will arrive before noon tomorrow.”

Thranduil's face had gone still, but his eyes searched the younger Elf's face for a long moment before he nodded. “Very well. Warn the Captains.”

“There is more, my king,” Tauriel spoke up quietly. “I sent scouts south along the borders of the wood...another army marches from Dol Guldur, led by the white Orc himself. It may arrive before the troops from Gundabad, but it will not be by much.”

The Elf king closed his eyes for a bare moment, then turned to the wizard.

“I find myself in the rather uncomfortable position of hoping that a Dwarven army arrives sooner rather than later,” he commented, a wry, self-deprecating twist to his lips. “Prince Fíli, will Lord Dáin listen to you? Will he fight alongside us?”

The young prince considered for a long moment. “I do not know if he will listen, but I do know that he hates Orcs as much as any Elf,” he commented with a smirk reminiscent of his absent brother. “One way or another, he will fight. I just hope he gets here early enough for us to actually make a plan for the battle.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mi targê! - By my beard!  
> akdâmuthrab – burglar


	31. A Song for Heart and Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, I am really, really sorry for the recent delays in updates. Life has been a bit hectic, and my writing focus hasn't been that great. Reviews and feedback are always deeply appreciated!

“Then we're all agreed?”

Balin's query was mostly rhetorical, but Dwalin found himself glaring imposingly around the small room regardless, ready to quell any debate. The five Dwarves gathered before him, however, nodded quickly and the Arms Master relaxed slightly as he took in the determined looks on their faces. They were only five – Bofur had the watch on the battlements, while Bombur and Bifur had excused themselves from the discussion on the grounds that it was the business of Durin's Line. Kíli had been left out at Balin's insistence – Mahal only knew where the lad had wandered off to, anyway. He had disappeared soon after the ugly scene at the Gate, and no one had the heart to track him down. Especially not for such a business as this.

It felt wrong. The big warrior had accepted his brother's reasoning in his mind, but his heart was torn and his gut roiled with unease. He wondered abruptly if this was how Bilbo had felt when he was making the decision to take the Arkenstone from the Mountain and hand it to those who threatened to lay siege. Dwalin sighed and determined right then that if Mahal saw fit to bring him through the coming days intact, he would make a point of finding the Hobbit and apologizing for not supporting him at the Gate. Then he would have to do the same for Viska, and the lads. He frowned and wondered if it might not be easier to simply sacrifice himself in a blaze of glory.

“Tonight?” Dori asked quietly. The leather-worker looked worn and pale, but he had committed to their little plot with only a moment's consideration. Balin nodded.

“Earlier, if we can manage it,” he agreed. “We can wait no longer. Dáin draws closer with every hour, and there is no knowing when Azog's army will arrive.”

“Fíli can probably buy us a little time,” Nori pointed out cannily, a small smirk on his narrow face. “If I know the lad, he'll back Dáin down long enough to explain what's happened.”

“Aye. He's grown, that one. Be a fine King Under the Mountain one day,” Glóin agreed, a proud smile splitting his thick red beard. “Nearly swallowed my teeth when he stood up to Thorin outside the hidden door, about going after Bilbo. And defending his lass atop the Gate! A perfect blend of his parents, he is – Torvi's even temper, and Dís's spirit when it's needed.”

Ori managed a small smile, the younger Dwarf's eyes haunted with guilt. He had been the most reluctant to agree to their plot, his gentle heart ill at ease with the kind of betrayal that they planned. Dwalin was fairly certain that only Thorin's actions in banishing Fíli and Viska had allowed them to sway the scholar. “What about Kíli?” he asked quietly. “Won't there be a better chance of success if he's involved?”

“Possibly,” Balin admitted. “My main worry is his anger at Thorin after the events of this morning. Perhaps once it is begun.” He glanced at their healer. Óin was already digging through his apothecary bag for the herbs he would need, but he nodded shortly at the councilor's questioning look.

“After dinner,” he commented shortly. “It'll take me a bit to get the dram mixed, but it should be ready by then.” He paused, gazing around at his kin, and shook his head. “Mahal forgive us.”

* * *

 

_The Mountain is a tomb._

_He had known that it would be – in his mind, he had understood that those who had not escaped had perished in the depths of Erebor. Some had been consumed by the dragon. Others moulder in whatever hidden alcoves they had found before the end. His own mother, Princess Ara, lies somewhere in these vast halls._

_He had known, but it had never been real to him. Even now, it is a distant realization. The power of the Arkenstone wraps him in a cocoon of isolation, putting all emotions (save rage) at a distance. It is only recently, with the distance granted by the Hobbit's (treasonous) removal of the Stone from the Mountain, that some hint of the pain and loss has crept into his heart. He remembers Balin's words beneath Ravenhill – ten or fifteen thousand Dwarves in Erebor, and fewer than two thousand escaped the dragon's wrath. The entire Mountain is a sepulcher, and in his brightest moments, he can almost hear the whispers of the lost._

_In a way, they are comforting. Not to the part of him that is deep in the Arkenstone's control. No, it is the deepest core of his soul, that part which is essentially Thorin – son, brother, uncle, friend – that finds peace in the ancient echoes of the dead. He knew many of them, once, though names and faces are long forgotten, and he will rejoin them in the Halls of Mandos when his time in Middle Earth is done. For now, they are companions in the darkness, balm to a tortured soul._

_Outside of the walls, a conflict looms, but inside his mind, battle has already been joined...and he is losing. The flame within is guttering under the constant onslaught of the Arkenstone's power. He wishes he could reach out to the Mountain, feel her cool marble beneath his hand, truly commune with the past, but the Stone will not let him. After so long imprisoned in the depths of the living rock, the Arkenstone hates and fears the Lonely Mountain (and perhaps the effect that such contact would have on him?), and so he is cut off from his greatest source of strength._

_At his core, he is still Thorin, the true Thorin, the Dwarf that hates himself for his body's actions at the Gate, that bleeds inside for the pain in the eyes of his nephews, his friends. The greater part, however, is still under the control of the Stone, surrounding him with fear, anger, seething jealousy. And it is this part that surges to the fore when he hears footsteps in the hall outside of the Throne Room, senses his remaining nephew (Mahal, he banished Fíli!) hesitating at the threshold. Thorin screams inside the prison of his mind, begging Kíli to go, to recall his brother and rally the Company before it is too late, but his body is no longer his to control. Instead, he can only watch, a stranger behind his own eyes._

* * *

 

“Gandalf?”

The wizard glanced at her, seeming completely unsurprised by her presence as Viska fell into step at his side. He slowed slightly, matching his strides to her shorter ones, and graced her with one of his compassionate smiles.

“Ah, Lady Viska. I had hoped to speak to you this evening. I wish to express my condolences for the loss of your brother. Triskel was a brave and good Dwarf.”

She nodded her thanks, ignoring the stab of grief in her heart.

“Thank you, Tharkûn. He was, and he was a kind and loving brother. I will miss him.”

“I am glad that you have not been left completely alone in your grief, my lady,” he added, a twinkle in his kind eyes as she fought a blush.

“Please, Gandalf, it is only Viska.”

The Istari shook his head as he came to a halt, his face grave. “With that braid in your hair, dear one, you are Lady Viska, soon to be betrothed to the Crown Prince of Erebor – until and unless Thorin draws up documents to the contrary. And I rather imagine that he has other concerns right now.”

Viska felt her face darken, one hand going to the braid that bore Fíli's bead.

“He tried to cut the braid from my hair, you know. Just before we left. Fíli had his sword pointed at his uncle, his king.” She closed her eyes, shuddering at the memory. “I never want to see that again. It felt like the world tilted.”

Glancing around, Gandalf found a sturdy crate and took a seat, putting his head closer to her level as he studied her intently. “I know it brings no comfort, but Thorin is truly not in control of his own actions. Now, was there something that you wished to discuss?”  
  
She sighed and focused her thoughts, meeting his curious gaze. “I have heard troubling things over the past months, and I am beginning to piece them together,” she explained, choosing her words carefully. “I do not believe that you have been entirely open with us, dear wizard, and I would ask that you help me complete the picture. With as few of your vague hints and riddles as possible, but I will not deny you all of your fun.”

Gandalf chuckled. “The world was poorer for your silence the past few months, my dear. I will answer what I can, though you may find yourself with more questions by the end.”

Viska nodded, then looked him in the eye, her own not quite challenging.

“Something is rising, isn't it, Gandalf? Some darkness. Some evil. You have been distracted and troubled throughout our journey, and I know you intended to be with Thorin when he entered the Mountain. Bilbo overheard your conversation with Lord Elrond about the dangers of the Arkenstone. Why were you so anxious for Smaug to be driven out? Why was Beorn so troubled when we left him? And why are there whispers that Dol Guldur is no longer empty?”

Gandalf was silent for a long moment, his gaze flickering away – not in evasion, but in thought – before returning to her as he sighed deeply. “I do not know,” he finally admitted. “Not for certain. I know that something is very wrong. I know that the Enemy has returned, in spite of the fact that Saruman, the head of my Order, said it was impossible. I know that he will try to reclaim what once he ruled, and I believe that he hopes to reestablish the ancient land of Angmar, west of the Misty Mountains.”

She stared at him, everything she knew about the wars running through her mind, and the last fragments slid into place.

“You want Erebor to strengthen the defense of the West.”

He nodded. “I do. But it may never be needed, or it may be far in the future.” He studied her closely, searching her face. “You are angry?”  
  
The Dwarrowlass shook her head, her gaze moving beyond him to the looming shadow of the Mountain. “No. You are Tharkûn, but you are also Gandalf, and Mithrandir. You must see to the protection of _all_ of Middle Earth.” She turned back to him, green eyes clear and jaw set. “And the Dwarves are a part of it. We will fight.”

“I know.”

She sighed, a familiar figure catching her eye as he moved through the camp, looking rather lost. “I did not know what Bilbo was doing, but if I had, I would have agreed with him, helped him. He was right. I wish his ploy had worked as he intended it. We need Thorin. Azog is still out there, I know it. He will come.”

“He will. He is in league with Dol Guldur.”

“The Enemy wants the line of Durin extinguished,” she realized, a chill running through her. She turned to the wizard. “Why?”

“They are the eldest of the Dwarf lines, and they had the strongest affinity with Erebor.”

“The Mountain? It really is conscious? Fíli and Balin tried to explain, but I could not hear it. I wasn't really sure what to believe. It's true, then? The line of Durin is tied to the Mountain?”  
  
Gandalf nodded heavily, his gaze finding the Great Gate.

“They are. They need the Mountain, and she needs them, to thrive, to reach their full potential and strength. And that is the best defense if Mordor should rise again.”

Viska stared at him blankly, her mind in turmoil. “Mahal, what kind of family am I joining?”  
  
The wizard smiled and stood, reaching out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “One that will stand to defend the Free Races of Middle Earth. And one that loves you.”

* * *

 

Kíli stood at the door to the Throne Room, gathering his courage and steeling his nerves. He had spent the last several hours in the little bay outside of the hidden door, staring blindly out across the Long Lake. He had promised his brother that he would try to reason with Thorin, but he did not even know where to start. All he could think of was that last glimpse of Fíli's face as he disappeared over the battlements, tense and determined. It felt wrong – watching him go, not following. He had followed his brother for his entire life, into and out of mischief and danger. They did not spend every waking moment in one another's company, of course, but they were close, even for brothers, and it had made him nauseous to stand by and watch the elder prince leave the Mountain. In the hours outside, he had come to a single conclusion. It could not stand. He could not leave Fíli outside Erebor, while he remained safe behind stone walls. It was not in his nature. He and his brother had always been stronger together than apart, and that strength was vital now. Fíli had Viska and Kíli would not jeopardize their future by failing to be at his brother's side when the danger was greatest. He would make one last attempt to speak to their uncle. Then he would go where he belonged.

Taking a deep breath, he strode into the chamber, his dark gaze locked on the brooding figure in the throne. Thorin looked ill. His skin was pale and clammy, shadows beneath his eyes like bruises. And those eyes! They glinted with a feverish fire as the king muttered to himself, just quietly enough that the archer could not pick out the words as he halted several steps before the great seat. After waiting, unacknowledged, for several minutes, he cleared his throat. Thorin's gaze snapped up and Kíli barely kept himself from stepping back in shock at the fury in their depths. Instead, he took a deep breath and offered a small bow, his right fist pressed to his heart.

“I come to ask what my king commands, should the Orcs attack as we have been warned,” he murmured, as respectfully as he could manage. His veins filled with ice when his uncle barked a laugh.

“If we should be so lucky, we will do nothing!” Thorin replied, a feral grin on his face. “Let _Thranduil_ , the mighty Elf king, deal with Azog and his ilk. The Mountain will be safe enough.”

“And Dáin's men?” Kíli asked, his voice tight. “If they are caught outside of Erebor?”

The king shrugged. “They will do their duty and serve their liege,” he answered shortly. “To the death, if necessary.”

Kíli stared at his uncle in disbelief.

“We're not going to help?” he repeated incredulously. “We're going to stay in here, safe behind stone walls, while the others fight and die out there? The Men of Laketown, who lost everything because we woke the dragon? The Dwarves of the Iron Hills, our _kin_ , led by your cousin? Gandalf, Bilbo, Viska, _Fíli_?”

Thorin sneered and Kíli realized that he had never seen such an ugly expression on his elder's face. Frowns he had seen aplenty, but this...this was an expression that belonged on the Master of Laketown, or a goblin. Not on a king, _never_ on his uncle.

“Do not speak to me of traitors,” he growled, getting to his feet. “The wizard is the one that selected that thieving Hobbit – the Orcs are welcome to both of them.”

“And Fíli? Your heir? _My brother?_ What of him? Bad enough you are ignoring the many times Gandalf and Bilbo saved our sorry hides on this expedition, what of your _kin_?”

“He is no kin of mine.”

Kíli felt as though he had been struck between the eyes. He shook his head, refusing to believe that he had actually heard Thorin utter those words. “You do not mean that. You cannot. You would never turn your back on us!”

Thorin advanced on him, a growl starting deep in his chest. “He turned his back on me! The moment he chose his whore over Erebor, he was no longer a son of Durin!”

Kíli had never been known for his restraint, and it took every ounce of it that he possessed to keep his sword sheathed. There was not enough left over to keep his hands from curling into fists, or to keep one of them from swinging for his uncle's jaw. Thorin's head snapped back as it connected, staggering him enough that he fell back onto the stairs before the throne. The archer stood frozen, his breath heaving in his chest as something flared in the sapphire eyes. He must have been hallucinating, because it looked almost like pride, and hope. Then it was gone, the now-familiar contempt and rage staring back at him, mixed with shock. Thorin still was not moving, though, and the young prince seized the moment to speak before he could be silenced.

“She. Is. His. _One,_ ” he hissed between clenched teeth. “I have watched them since Rivendell, protecting one another, supporting one another. She has been at Fíli's back as much as I have these past weeks, and you banished her from the kingdom she helped you reclaim! Of course he followed her! How could he do otherwise?” All of the fight drained out of him suddenly and the lad slumped, dropping his gaze to the floor. “And how could I stay behind and let him go?” he murmured, half to himself. He took a deep breath and pulled himself together, straightening his back. Then he lifted weary eyes to meet the icy blue of the King Under the Mountain. “You want to stay here and protect your gold, Thorin? Fine. But I'm going out there. I will fight at Fíli's side, and die there, if Mahal has decreed it is our time.”

With the smallest nod of respect, he turned on his heel and marched away, glancing back only once, when he heard Thorin call after him.

“Kíli! Don't be a fool! You belong here!”

“I _belong_ with my brother.”

* * *

 

The Elves saw the approaching army first, but Fíli already knew that they had stepped onto Erebor stone. The foundation of the Mountain stretched for miles in every direction, running beneath the soil. South, it reached the far edge of Dale, though not the Long Lake. West, it passed just under the eaves of the Mirkwood. He was not certain how far North it went, but he had been in contact with the stone for much of the late afternoon and nothing moved in that direction save wild animals. Now, however, Erebor sang a song of welcome as more of Durin's folk came within her ken. Dáin's army approached from the East as the sun began to sink behind the Misty Mountains, and the golden-haired former prince knew that the time had come. He nodded silently as Thranduil's messenger relayed word that the Dwarves of the Iron Hills had been spotted, mentally rehearsing once more the words he hoped would sway their lord from his original goal. A hand rested on his shoulder and he glanced up into Gandalf's face, the wizard's kind eyes glinting with approval. Viska was staying behind (he still wasn't quite certain how he had managed that), but Gandalf and Bard would ride with him.

“Ready?”

Fíli nodded once more, squeezing Viska's hand gently before he turned to accept Bard's hand up onto the tall horse that the bowman rode. Settling in place behind the Lakeman, the young Dwarf glanced down at the lass who wore his bead. She smiled up at him, her face confident, and he found himself wishing he had as much faith as she did in his ability to win Dáin over.

“You are a Son of Durin,” she reminded him, a fierce glow in her green eyes. “Be sure of yourself, and he will listen.”

“As you say, _amrâlimê_ ,” he agreed with a smile. “Mahal willing, we will have a battle plan before dawn, and we can send Azog and his filth into oblivion together.”

 

The ride was not a long one, but they approached the Dwarven army slowly, giving Dáin plenty of time to see them as Bard held up a banner of peace to avoid provoking a hasty reaction. The Dwarf lord brought his troops to a halt, the foot soldiers stopping neatly in ranks as several squads of ram-riders spread out to either side. After a short consultation, Dáin himself approached, fierce and proud atop his great boar, accompanied by several of his commanders. They came to a halt several yards away and sized up the two riders before them. Gandalf spoke first, nodding respectfully to the Lord of the Iron Hills.

“Lord Dáin.”

“Gandalf the Grey.” Dáin sounded wary, but not angry, his sharp eyes darting to where the Man sat his horse easily, both hands visible. “I had not thought to find you here, aligned with those who threaten my kin, wizard. You were friend to Durin's Line, once. What changed?”

“Nothing,” Gandalf answered quickly. “My companion is Bard of Laketown, he who slew the dragon Smaug. We ask only a moment of your time, to explain the situation more fully than Thorin will have in his messages by raven.”

“An' how d'you know of the ravens?” the Dwarf demanded, suddenly suspicious. “My cousin tells me that the Arkenstone is stolen, held against a demand of gold and silver. He tells me that an army of Men and Elves wait at his Gate, and that much I can see for m'self!”

It had gone far enough. It had always been long odds that Gandalf would be able to convince Dáin of anything, but time was too short for this verbal sparring match. Taking a deep breath, Fíli slid from his place behind Bard, his boots thumping to the ground as the Dwarven commanders startled and reached for weapons. The golden Dwarrow offered a polite hand-on-heart bow, not too deep, fixing his gaze on Dáin's face.

“My lord, if you will not listen to Gandalf, will you at least spare me a moment of your time?”

He could see the thoughts whirling behind the hazel eyes as his cousin stared at him, taking in the braids and beads that he wore. Waving the commanders to stillness, Dáin cocked his head at the younger Dwarf.

“And who might you be, laddie?”

“Fíli, son of Dís.”

Murmurs broke out among the commanders and Dáin's eyes narrowed. Dismounting, he approached, studying Fíli's face closely. The lad waited without speaking.

“Thorin's nephew?” the warrior finally demanded. “His heir?”  
Fíli nodded.

“What are you doing outside the Mountain, lad? Why are you out here with the Men and Elves?”

The last word was a sneer and the prince barely restrained a sigh.

“Please, my lord, might we speak with privacy?” he asked quietly. “Bring one of your men with you, but I ask that you chose your most discrete.”

The Lord of the Iron Hills stared at him for a long moment before offering a jerky nod and waving to one of his commanders.

“Halvr, with me. The rest of you, wait here a moment,” he ordered, striding off to find a spot equally distant from his army and Fíli's companions. Fíli hurried after him, Halvr close behind. When Dáin stopped, he turned to face the younger Dwarf, his arms crossed across his burly chest and a shrewd look on his face (what was visible of it beneath his thick red beard).

“Explain,” he ordered shortly. “Why are you in the camp of our enemies, son of Dís?”

“Because they are not our enemies,” Fíli replied bluntly. “They would stand as our allies against the true threat – the Orcs that march from Gundabad behind Bolg, and those that march from Dol Guldur behind his sire, Azog the Defiler.”

The fierce warrior was silent, but Halvr spoke up in his stead.

“Impossible, lad,” the commander told him, not unkindly. “Azog is dead.”

The golden-haired prince shook his head, keeping his gaze on Dáin. “No, he is not. Twice he has attacked us on this quest, and a third time he sent scouts into Laketown seeking us, nearly resulting in the deaths of two of our Company. The Defiler lives, and I have seen him with my own eyes.”

Dáin nodded, his eyes flicking to the looming Mountain.

“Why is Thorin not out here, then?” he asked, a strange reluctance in his voice, as though he did not truly want the question answered. Fíli sighed.

“The king fortifies the Mountain,” he replied tightly. “He...does not believe Gandalf's warning, or the word of the Elven scouts who have seen the enemy.”

The red-bearded warrior closed his eyes, a flicker of pain crossing his craggy face as he shook his head. “The sickness has seized him. That is why you wanted to speak in private.”

In spite of all that had happened, the young swordsman felt himself bristling and hurrying to defend his uncle. “Thorin is noble and honorable-!”  
  
“Peace, lad,” Dáin interrupted, reaching out to clasp his shoulder firmly. “I cast no blame. I saw Thrór.” He exchanged a glance with Halvr. “Has the Arkenstone actually been found?”

“In that, you were told true,” Fíli admitted. “It was found, but it is no longer within the Mountain. It is a long story, but suffice to say that Thorin was not pleased. Words were said, blows were struck...in the end, I was banished and disinherited.” He met the flinty gaze with an icy blue one of his own. “But that changes nothing.”

“You are certain of the Orc threat?”

“I am.”

Those sharp eyes studied him a moment more, then the Lord of the Iron Hills nodded decisively. “Very well, then. I will follow your lead, as Thorin's heir. The Dwarves of the Iron Hills stand ready.”

A measure of the terrible tension eased from Fíli's muscles and he barely kept himself from sighing with relief. Instead, he offered another small bow.

“Thank you, Lord Dáin.”

Never one to delay what must be done, the burly warrior started back toward the waiting army at a brisk pace, Halvr at his heels. The prince kept pace easily, already planning how best to introduce the irascible Dwarf to his new allies. The gruff voice broke into his thoughts.

“Where's your brother, lad? Back at the camp?”

Fíli shook his head, his eyes going instinctively to the Mountain, his heart aching with Kíli's absence. “Still inside Erebor, trying to help Thorin see reason,” he replied.

“Mahal guide him, then,” Dáin commented. “Thorin always was stubborn enough for two, but he is also strong of mind. Keep hope, lad. He will come to his senses. He is not Thrór, or even Thráin. He is Thorin, the Oakenshield.”

* * *

 

Balin watched his king anxiously, alert for the first signs that Óin's mixture was doing its work. They had managed to add it to his water skin as he raged after Kíli, the young archer refusing to acknowledge his uncle as he gathered his gear and allowed Dwalin and Glóin to escort him to the battlements. The old adviser did not know what had been said between the two in the Throne Room, but he hoped desperately that whatever wounds had been inflicted could be healed. If their plan worked.

Thorin yawned, stumbling slightly, and Balin's gaze flicked to Óin. His cousin gave a barely perceptible nod and the white-haired Dwarf's hands moved in subtle signs. Those of Durin's blood began moving toward them, while Bifur and his cousins chatted casually and sharpened their weapons. Shaking his head as though to dispel the sudden weariness, Thorin growled under his breath and turned toward the Throne Room. The Company held back as he disappeared into the dark hall, Nori the one who slipped over to peer through the door on quiet feet. When he glanced back bare minutes later, his hands were moving quickly.

_He's asleep, in the throne. Now or never._

Balin moved toward the door, his brother close behind. Within a few minutes, they were gathered around the throne. Balin took up a place to the right of the great seat, Óin at his side. Then came Nori, Dori, Ori, Glóin, and finally Dwalin, mirroring Balin's stance on the far side. Moving slowly, carefully, the Arms Master eased off the glove that Thorin wore on his left hand. Balin did the same on the right as the others reached out to place their hands on the marble of the throne and dais. Pressing the king's hands flush on the arms of the throne, the brothers stared at one another for a long moment. Then Dwalin nodded and each of them reached out to the stone of the Mountain. Closing his eyes, Balin began to hum. One by one, his kin added their voices, the Song of the Mountain reverberating in the massive chamber.

 


	32. King of Carven Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so terribly sorry. I never expected it to go so long between chapters – all I can say is that the creative half of my brain took a vacation and only recently returned. Seriously. I even bombed out of NaNoWriMo because I couldn't write anything. So, again, I apologize for the long wait. I can't promise that it won't happen again, but I will try my best.
> 
> So, for anyone who might still be with me, here's a new chapter!

Bilbo stepped carefully off of the last stone stair, staggering slightly under the weight of his burden as he entered the dimly-lit room. Carefully setting the overflowing basket on the floor against the wall, next to a precarious pile of similar supplies, he stretched his back out with a grimace, feeling every mile of the journey from the Shire in his sore shoulders. There was a thunk as his companion dropped a heavy box of provisions and he chuckled as the Dwarrowlass gracelessly flopped down on the crate.

“Remind me not to let you volunteer my assistance again,” she groaned dramatically, giving him a sideways glare. The Hobbit merely smiled, glancing at their surroundings. Feeling rather at loose ends, he had offered to help the folk of Laketown move what little they had to safety before the looming battle, recruiting Viska with the observation that it would keep them occupied while they waited for Fíli's return and news of Dáin. There was little enough safety to be had, but in between scanning for Dáin's approach, and news of the Orc armies, the Dwarf prince had spent part of his afternoon communing with the Mountain searching out refuges for the noncombatants. Most of the surface buildings of the city of Men were in a dangerous state of disrepair, damaged by the violence of Smaug's arrival and left to crumble where they stood for over a century. The builders of Dale, however, had not constructed their city in the shadow of the greatest remaining Dwarf kingdom without taking advantage of the expertise of their neighbors. Beneath the city itself, sunk deep in Erebor stone, were storage chambers and treasuries, their construction still as solid as the day they were built (most likely with the help of Dwarf masons). With the assistance of the Elves, the chambers had been cleaned out, their doors reinforced and camouflaged to safeguard the location of those that would soon be taking shelter. The wounded and the little ones had already been moved, then the provisions had been divided under the guidance of the young Lakeman Dunstan and Guard Captain Suilrien of Mirkwood. The burglar and the jeweler had helped move the last of the meager supplies, and this was the first opportunity that he had had to actually look at the subterranean chambers. He suppressed a shudder, but turned to find green eyes watching him with a knowing gleam.

“Not really Hobbit-friendly, is it?” she asked quietly, glancing at the windowless stone walls, Man-height ceiling, and tight quarters. Bilbo chuckled and shook his head.

“Not the most comfortable, no,” he replied with a small smile. “Still, 'picking and choosing is for when the wolves aren't howling at the door,' as my mother used to say. Safety over comfort. I just hope....”

He trailed off, not wanting to put words to the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, the inner warning that this would not end well for his friends. He could read the knowledge in the lass's face, but she wanted to voice it no more than he did. Instead, she reached for a new topic of conversation.

“Are there many in the Shire? Wolves?”  
  
http://archiveofourown.org/works/4180074/chapters/12402104/edit# “No, not as a general rule. In fact, they are quite scarce, unless the Brandywine River freezes, and it's only done that once in our history. They came across in droves, then, during the Fell Winter. My-”

“Viska!!”

A child's squeal of joy, accompanied by the eager yapping of an excited pup, interrupted him, and he was caught off guard by the slight figure that hurtled past to throw itself on the bemused Dwarrowmaid. Viska laughed and hugged the girl gently as Bilbo fended off a squashed-face little dog that seemed intent on climbing his legs, curled tail wagging frantically. A smiling young Woman approached, shaking her head in fond exasperation as she scooped the snorting monster off of the floor.

“My apologies, Master Dwarf,” she murmured, soothing the little creature with well-placed scratches. “Walnut is a bit unsettled by all of the activity and recent excitement. She won't hurt you – she just wants attention.”

“Aren't we all,” he agreed wryly, scrubbing the dog under the chin and watching her eyes half close with delight. “Unsettled, I mean. And I'm not a Dwarf, actually. I'm a Hobbit. From the Shire, west of the Misty Mountains. Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” He finished with a slight bow, realizing as he straightened that his friends' mannerisms had certainly begun to rub off on him. The lass bobbed a shallow curtsy, her gray eyes wide with curiosity.

“Sigrid, daughter of Bard of Laketown,” she replied, setting Walnut back on the stone floor.

“And this is her little sister, Tilda,” Viska put in, having disentangled herself from the smaller girl. “Their father slew the dragon.”

“With your help, but - Viska, what happened to your face?”

Bilbo watched the reunion with an affectionate smile, wondering at the difference that a few months had made in his perspective. In the Shire, most respectable Hobbits would immediately dismiss the Dwarf lass as the worst sort of troublemaker. The spectacular bruise that had blossomed from the gash on her cheek, nearly blacking her right eye, spread over the vivid scar from the Goblin blades so many months ago. It ran from the center of her forehead to her right cheek, narrowly missing the eye, and combined with the bead-weighted braids to give her an exotic, dangerous air that would have put off all but the most adventurous of the Took and Brandybuck clans. Yet here she stood, playing affectionate big sister to two daughters of Man, lasses who had seen their home invaded by Orcs, then destroyed by a dragon, only to take shelter in a crumbling city that was itself in imminent danger from two massive Orc armies.

Not for the first time, Belladonna Took's son wondered what had possessed him that April morning, sending him out of his door and into a tale too large for a simple Halfling. He had traveled with Dwarves, dined with Elves, befriended a skin-changer, and worked alongside Men. He had dodged Trolls, riddled with the twisted creature beneath the Misty Mountain, stood up to the massive pale Orc, tricked giant spiders, and spoken to a dragon. He carried a glowing Elvish sword, a shirt of shimmering mail that Fíli had assured him was worth a rather large fortune, and a golden ring that let him walk unseen. But more than all of this, he had made friends such as he had never imagined. After so much, how could he ever return to the Shire? Surely it would seem too small, now, too stuffy and confining, with its uneventful turn of the seasons and peaceful traditions.

But no. The answer came even as he considered it. The Shire was quiet, but it was home. It was not so elegant as Rivendell, or so awe-inspiring as Erebor, but there was beauty in the simplicity of life there. Hobbits might be a bit standoffish, or overly concerned with respectability, but there were bright, adventurous spirits, too (his young cousins Paladin and Saradoc came to mind), and who better to nurture such daring hearts than one who had his own tales to tell?

* * *

 

Balin was the first to disconnect from the stone, weary to his very soul. Sipping from the water skin he carried, he studied his king. Thorin dreamed, that much was clear, but of what? There was no denying that he was in communion with the Mountain – Balin had felt the brush of his cousin's mind, though only fleetingly, within the greater presence of Erebor herself. Something was happening, he just didn't know exactly what results they would produce.

* * *

 

_His earliest memories are like fragments of a half-forgotten dream – a collection of sensory impressions, fleeting glimpses without a narrative._

 

_...his mother's golden braids are redolent with the scent of lavender, catching the candlelight as as she pulls a blanket up to his chin and presses a kiss to his forehead, her eyes like sapphires in shadow...._

 

_...his father's coat is rough beneath his hand, the intricately-embroidered wool a deep blue that swallows the light, ingrained with the rich aroma of tobacco smoke no matter how many times it is washed...._

 

_...his grandmother's hugs are warm and comforting, and she always smells just slightly of rose petals as she tells the gentle tales of their ancestors, where adventures always end in joyful discovery and lessons are learned by all...._

 

_...his grandfather's voice is deep, his blue eyes fierce as he leads the songs during the Feast of Remembrance, honoring the battle-fallen through the Ages, from the depths of time to_ Khazâd-dûm _in_ Malasul'abbad _, where fell Durin IV and his son Náin before their folk were driven from their halls by Durin's Bane, to_ Zeleg'ubrazul _in_ Thafar'abbad _, where Thrór's father and brother fell to the great cold-drake...._

 

_...his sister's laugh is the sound of bells, his brother's smile a mischievous smirk that fills him with both foreboding and anticipation, for they always plan the best pranks, and he has never been able to deny their headlong enthusiasm...._

 

… _and_ _through it all, the Song of the Mountain reverberates within his very soul. It vibrates beneath his hand when he touches a wall or balustrade, singing to him of home, and family, and belonging...._

* * *

 

The sun was well set when Viska emerged from the ruins of Dale. At her urging, Bilbo had remained behind, safely adopted by Bard's daughters. The last she had seen of him, he had been surrounded by the youngest of the refugees, distracting the children with funny stories from the Shire as their exhausted guardians put the finishing touches on the deeproom's defenses. Dunstan had escorted her through the city, pointing out the subtle barricades that the Elves and Men had created to steer any stray Orcs away from the hidden noncombatants.

“And you saw the weapon stores,” he finished, a worried frown on his young face. “For what good they will do. If the enemy makes it that far...we can only hope that the children can make it to the concealed exits.”

She nodded silently. Neither of them needed a reminder of the obvious – even with the adults willing to give their lives to delay the Orcs, there was little chance that the children would make it through the city, much less to the meeting points outside where any surviving fighters would gather to try and get them to safety. The guard was young, but he was no fool. He knew the stakes. They all did. This unlikely alliance would stand or fall together.

“Lady Viska?”

She turned to find an unfamiliar she-Elf studying her curiously. Dismissing Dunstan with a nod of reassurance, she lifted her chin and met the taller female's gaze steadily.

“I am Viska,” she acknowledged quietly.

“Nenith of the Woodland Realm,” the dark-haired Elf murmured, bowing slightly. “My king bid me ask you to come to the command tent. Mithrandir has returned, with Prince Fíli, Lord Dáin, and Lord Bard. Your company is requested.”

Tension that she had not even realized that she carried eased from the Dwarrowmaid's shoulders and she felt a grin spread across her face.

“Thank you, Nenith, for your news. I am in your debt, but I fear that I must ask you another favor. Would you be so kind as to show me the way to the command tent? I fear I have gotten a bit turned around and things look much different with the sun down.”

“Of course. If you would follow me?”

 

Once it was in sight, King Thranduil's command tent was difficult to miss, but she realized as she approached that her ears could have led her there just as well. From the sound of it, Lord Dáin and the Elf king were in disagreement, with Bard occasionally throwing in quiet suggestions. The absence of Fíli's distinctive baritone worried her, until a moving shadow slipped from the tent's entrance and resolved into the fair-haired prince. Mindful of their audience, both seen and unseen, the Dwarf lass greeted him with a smile and nodded toward the raised voices.

“Dáin and Thranduil getting along well, then?” she asked, quirking a brow. A small smile flitted across his face, dimples flashing as he shook his head in fond exasperation.

“I'll leave them to it,” he replied quietly. “They have a thousand years of combat experience between them, and Gandalf to advise, if they stop shouting long enough to listen to him. I've just gotten word that a Dwarf has approached one of the sentries, from the direction of the Mountain. I'm going to see who it is. Will you accompany me?”

Viska nodded and he glanced at her companion, offering a small bow with his hand over his heart. “Thank you for bringing my lady to my side, Nenith of the Wood,” he thanked her. “The king knows of our errand, so yours is complete. Go in peace.”

Nenith nodded and smiled brightly at the two Dwarves, the expression bringing a startling youth to the ageless face. “I thank you for your courtesy, Prince,” she replied, offering a low bow in return. “If I may say so, you are not what I expected in a Dwarf.”

“And you are refreshingly open for an Elf,” he responded, taking Viska's hand in his own with a gentle possessiveness and starting toward the far edge of the Elven encampment. “I wish you well tomorrow.”

“Valar protect us all,” came the quiet response.

“ _Mukhuh mabaddakhi y bunmû Mahal_ ,” Viska murmured, her voice low and fervent. Fíli hummed in agreement as he trotted toward his destination. Viska kept pace with him easily, realization dawning as his speed increased.

“You think it's Kíli?”

“They said it was only a single Dwarf,” he answered, his face slightly grim. “I don't think any of the others would have come alone. I hope he brings news that they will be joining us soon, but I am selfishly glad that he will be with us, at the least. It has felt...wrong...not to have him at my side.”

“Fee? Is that you?”

“Master Dwarf, please-!”

“Let him pass, Master Elf,” the golden prince spoke up, breaking in to a run as a familiar raven-haired figure dodged around the tall sentry. Kíli slammed into his brother at a dead run, knocking the shorter Dwarf back several steps as Fíli struggled to maintain his balance. Watching them with concern, Viska waved the Elf away when he would have interceded.

“It is his brother, Prince Kíli,” she told him quietly. “Please, return to your position. We will take him in to camp. Thank you for the summons.”

The sentry nodded shortly and hurried away, a flicker of relief in his eyes, and Viska stepped to Fíli's side, reaching out to clasp the archer's arm reassuringly as he finally stepped back. Kíli's face was wan and pale, his dark eyes wide with shock beneath his messy bangs, and he was shivering with nervous energy. When he spoke, his voice was hollow and disbelieving.

“I hit him, Fee. I hit Thorin! I tried to talk to him, like I promised. I swear I tried. But he was so...cold. So dismissive – of Dáin's men, Bilbo, Viska, _you_! I have never heard him like that. They were the words of a coward, a fool – not a king, not a Dwarf of Durin's Line.” His eyes bore into the elder prince's face, begging for understanding, for reassurance. “The Dwarf that sits that throne is not Thorin – it cannot be our uncle, our king.”

“It is not him, Kee, not really,” the Crown Prince agreed, blue eyes shadowed. “It is the Arkenstone. I have been talking with Gandalf – it is controlling him, twisting his mind.”

Kíli stared at him. “Then why did Gandalf bring us here?” he demanded, fury growing beneath the devastation. “If he knew-!”

“He didn't know, _nadadith_ , not really,” Viska put in gently, her voice soothing. “He thought Thorin would be safe. He made a mistake, Kíli. The Arkenstone can only control those who have touched it. Gandalf thought that, since Thorin was so young when Smaug came, he wouldn't have had enough contact with it for it to have a grip on his mind.”

The younger prince's shoulders sagged, the fight and fury draining out of him as exhaustion began to set in. “Dáin?” he asked quietly, meeting his brother's gaze. Fíli managed a small smile.

“Trying to shout down the Elf king's strategies when we left the command tent,” he replied with a hint of humor. “He knows a little of what has happened inside Erebor, but only he and one of his men know. He believes that Thorin can come back to us.”

Kíli nodded, dashing his sleeve quickly across his face to wipe away the tears that the others pretended not to see. “I think Balin has an idea,” he told them, a little of his usual nature sparking in the dark eyes. “The whole lot of them were acting shifty when I left, and Bofur said they were going about the business of Durin's Line, whatever that might mean.”

Viska saw a sudden glimmer of realization in Fíli's eyes, and there was hope in his face as the golden prince glanced toward the Mountain.

“Balin, you brilliant, devious soul. Mahal's blessing on you all.”

* * *

 

_The_ _memory of the_ _day the dragon came is a haze of fear and smoke. The tales of the Men of Dale state that the first warning they had was the hot wind from the north, but the son of Thráin was on the far side of the Mountain, finishing a training exercise with his friends and cousins, and his first warning was the Mountain screaming in his mind._

_(Thorin does not remember the day he was 'introduced' to Erebor – he was only five days old at the time – and so he does not recall a time before the Mountain was a distant presence in the back of his mind. Like his father and grandfather, and all of the Line of Durin, he is tied to the Mountain. Durin's heirs woke Erebor, and Durin's heirs are her link to the Dwarves she protects. To Thorin, Frerin, and Dis, this means little beyond a sense of warmth and welcome when they touch the stone of the Mountain, or a thrill of greeting when they return after being away from home. Until the day the dragon descends.)_

_He is out on the far slopes of Erebor with Dwalin, Glóin, Kulvik, and others when his hand lands on an outcropping of stone and he stiffens as a wordless scream of warning crashes into his mind. The young Dwarf cries out in surprise and shock, falling to his knees. His companions are at his side instantly, taking no notice of the hot wind whipping around the Mountain, their attention on the king's grandson._

_“Thorin?” Dwalin asks softly, exchanging a nervous look with the others. Sapphire eyes open and lock gazes with him, then his cousin seizes his hand and pulls it to the stone, uttering a single word._

_“Dragon!”_

_As one, the young Dwarves turn for the Mountain, their faces filled with fear for their families, but as they come in sight of the Great Gate, they discover the attack is already begun. Dale is burning, and the green sward between the two cities, and a great serpentine shape is at the Gate of Erebor. Thorin lunges forward, crying out for his father, mother, sister, brother, but Dwalin holds him back, tears flowing for his own kin inside. The lads retreat to the edges of Erebor stone and watch as the beast breaks in the gate. Survivors begin streaming out through the smaller gates and side doors, straggling along with the wounded and grieving. The young prince is the first to see the Mirkwood Elves arrive, led by their king on his great elk, and the first to realize that the Elves will not help. He roars in anger and disbelief as Thranduil stares impassively at the wreckage and refugees before turning away, and once again Dwalin is restraining his cousin. Then a cry of joyful relief breaks through to the lads and they turn to find that some of those beloved dead have escaped. Balin is there, his father Fundin, Óin and Gróin, and beyond hope, a copper-haired lad arrives with a black-haired lass and Thorin is holding his siblings tightly. As the sun sets, the last survivors trickle out of the Mountain, including a weary Thráin and a resisting Thrór, who has been forced to leave the Arkenstone to the dragon. The Line of Durin is intact, down to the youngest lass, but so many have been lost. Dis babbles of the walls telling her to run before ever the alarm was sounded, while Frerin shrugs and shakes his head._

_“The Mountain was screaming,” he mumbles. “No words, just warning. Then Dis came running, crying, and we fled. I could not find Amad.” He weeps at his failure, but Thorin holds his little sister close and praises his brother for getting her to safety. Thráin, too, rejoices that his children live, and he is the one who realizes that all of those with Durin's blood have escaped (even Nif and her little Dori, who are descended of an 'unofficial' line). This is the day that Thorin realizes that the tales are true – Erebor sings to the Line of Durin, and she has saved their lives even as they failed to defend her._

_Night falls on the Dwarven refugees and they gradually fall asleep at the edge of the wood. In the morning, they will begin their long trek, the Exile, that will take them across Middle Earth to Ered Luin – but first, they will be turned away from the halls of the Woodland Realm, and Thorin's anger will solidify to hatred of the Elves. For now, though, he is a young, grieving Dwarf prince who sits on the farthest edge of Erebor's stone with his father. Leadership has fallen to them, for Thrór rages for his lost treasure, and they have this one night to mourn their loss before they must devote themselves to protecting the Dwarves that have survived. Frerin and Dis are already asleep, curled together like pups in a pile, the clean streaks on their dirty faces the marks of tears. Thorin will join them soon, to take comfort in their presence. Thráin smiles gently at the exhausted youth and pulls him close to touch foreheads._

_“Sleep, my son,” he rumbles quietly, a rarely-heard gruff affection in his voice. “Tomorrow, we will lead our people to safety, and then we will figure out a way to return, to drive the beast from our home and retake Erebor.”_

_The lad nods and curls up with his siblings, unaware that he will not see the Mountain again for more than a hundred years, by which time only he and Dis will remain of the royal family that fled the dragon._

* * *

 Fíli sat under the stars, Viska a warm presence against his chest as he leaned back against a boulder. Kíli was safely asleep in a spare tent, the archer exhausted by the day's events. The elder prince and the jeweler had found a quiet place to rest, away from the main area of the camp, but close enough that no Orc would catch them unaware. He thought the Dwarrowmaid was dozing, so he was a little surprised when she gave a low chuckle and twisted his nearest braid with playful fingers.

“What's so funny?”

“I was just thinking.”

He waited a moment, but she offered no further information, and he finally sighed in defeat.

“A copper for your thoughts?” he offered with a smile. She sat up and turned to look at him, her eyes dancing with mischief.

“Only a copper?” she teased. Fíli gave a bark of startled laughter, then spread his hands to indicate his meager possessions.

“It's all I have, my lady,” he responded. “Your prince is currently a pauper.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Then perhaps my prince should count himself lucky that I would love him still if the only gold he had was his hair. Still, you have something of value.”

He smirked slightly. “Pray enlighten me.”

“A kiss.”

“Very well, then. A kiss for your thoughts. Shall I pay in advance?”  
  
“Of course.”

He pressed his lips gently to hers, realizing that it was more promise than kiss, a reassurance that she desperately needed. When she pulled away, he reached up to run calloused fingers over her courting braid.

“Now, your thoughts?”

She smiled, although a dark shadow still lingered behind her eyes, then shrugged. Settling back, she tucked herself under his shoulder and rested her head on his chest.

“Nothing of import, I was merely thinking of the night we met.” She peeked up at him through dark lashes. “Shall I return your payment?”

He chuckled.

“No need, _amrâlimê_. They are all rightfully yours, anyway. For the rest of our lives.” He hugged her tightly, then glanced down in confusion. “What about the night we met?”

“You called me an Elf.”

He sighed. “I said you _ate_ like an Elf. And I apologized, rather profusely, as I recall.”

Viska nodded. “True. You did. In spite of the fact that Trisk had to stop me from responding very rudely. In fact, I was rather rude several times that night.”

He arched a brow at her. “Really?”

A faint blush crept across the lass's cheeks and she became very interested in the trim on his coat. “When you and Kíli arrived, we were outside, watching Bilbo's door. I laughed at your greeting to him.”

Fíli laughed and shook his head. “That, I can forgive. We have done it most of our lives, but I can imagine it looking odd to someone who didn't know us.”

“And when Gandalf presented the key to Thorin....”

“Oh dear.”

“What was it? Ah yes, 'if there is a key, there must be a door!'”

The golden prince groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “Not my finest moment, I admit. It's a wonder you ever spoke to me.”

She gave him that sweet, bone-melting smile and snuggled into his side, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion. “You had better moments. Much better moments.”

“Such as?”

“When you pulled me from the river,” she sighed, her voice soft and slightly slurred. “When you goaded me to wakefulness in the Goblin tunnels. When you stood up to your uncle on the ramparts.”

He smiled, watching her slide toward sleep. “Rest well, _tablûna_ ,” he murmured, his arm tightening around her. He could feel _U'rak_ _h_ drawing him ever closer, and he was glad that he had let Gandalf know where they would be. The wizard had agreed that they both needed time away from the bustle of camp, and they would need whatever rest they could manage before the dawn arrived. They were safe enough, well within the line of Elven sentries, and so he gave himself over to the Lord of Dreams with a sigh of relief.

* * *

 

Thorin woke from the vivid dream of the past, tears of remembered grief drying on his face. His father's voice still echoed in his ears and he could feel the soft texture of Frerin's copper curls under his hand as he soothed the younger lad to sleep. It had been so long since he had seen his brother's face – so long since he had recalled Frerin as he had been in Erebor rather than how he had looked at the end, at Azanulbizar. And Dís...his sister had been so young when Smaug had wrecked their world, but already so strong of spirit. She had stood by him through all that had followed, even to sending her own sons with him on the quest to reclaim their homeland.

Her sons. Fíli, the gentle soul, with Durin iron buried beneath his father's golden looks. Kíli, the joyful heart, with his father's bottomless brown gaze and the Durin glower. His sister-sons, who had journeyed, fought, and bled beside him on this quest. His heirs, who he had cast out of the Mountain over a mind-poisoning stone and an earnest lass who had sought only to remind him of the true wealth of Durin's folk. How poorly he had repaid them, and her.

Thorin, son of Thráin, pressed his hand to the arm of the throne, reaching deliberately for the consciousness of Erebor for the first time since he had opened the secret door. And the Mountain answered – joy, relief, anger, and warning surging through him. Joy that the heirs of Durin had returned, relief that the Arkenstone was at least temporarily beyond his grasp, anger at the banishment of Fíli, and warning of the great host of Orcs that even now crossed onto Erebor stone. Toward Dáin and the Dwarves of the Iron Hills. Toward Thranduil and his Elven host. Toward Bard and the Men of the Lake. Toward Fíli and Kíli.

The image that filled his mind then was more his own conjuring than the Mountain's, and all the more chilling for that fact. He knows war – he knows the smells, the sounds, the sights, and it is all to easy to see them still and cold, their lifeblood mingled with the black ichor of Orcs on the frozen ground, beneath a blanket of snow....

 

_Kíli lies still for only the second time in memory, his face alabaster beneath the tangled locks, his lips blue, a massive serrated blade jutting from his chest. The body crumpled next to him is riddled with black-fletched arrows, Fíli's golden mane matted with crimson, the once-sparkling blue eyes dull and lifeless. Just beyond the reach of his outstretched hand, Viska is curled around a gaping wound, a stained blade in her stiffening grasp...._

 

Ice filled Thorin's veins and his heart thudded painfully in his chest as a roar of protest from the Mountain echoed through his skull. In the moment before he broke contact, he felt Erebor's anger in his very soul and his eyes blazed with blue fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Malasul'abbad – Misty Mountains (Khuzdul)  
> Zeleg'ubrazul – Golden Stair, the Longbeard citadel in the Grey Mountains (Khuzdul)  
> Thafar'abbad – Grey Mountains (Khuzdul)  
> Mukhuh mabaddakhi y bunmû Mahal – “May we meet again with the grace of Mahal,” a formal farewell (Khuzdul)


	33. The Heart is Bold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, this is a short chapter – mostly because I can't get the second half to come out right, so I figured a short update was better than nothing. A huge thank you to those who are still reading!!!
> 
> (Also, an adjustment has been made to chapter 32, to straighten out the time frames.)

“BALIN!”

Thorin lurched to his feet, reaching for the sword he had selected from the armory. Footsteps hurried toward him as more than one Dwarf approached, and he turned to the door as Balin entered, a look of concern on the older Dwarf's face. Dwalin was right behind his brother, but anger rode his brow. Both sons of Fundin stopped in their tracks when they met Thorin's gaze, a tentative hope flickering in their eyes. The king shrugged out of the heavy royal robe, fighting to remove the heavy plate mail.

“Has it begun?” he asked gruffly, giving Dwalin a tiny nod of thanks as the big warrior stepped forward to aid him with the straps and buckles. Balin ran a weary hand over his face and shook his head.

“It is early yet. The Orcs come, but battle is not yet met.”

“Has there been any sight of my nephews? The lass? The burglar?”

“None.”

“They'll be in the thick of it,” Dwalin observed grimly. “Save perhaps the Hobbit.”

“Dwalin, get the Company ready,” Thorin instructed quietly, burying a pang of fear at the though. “Balin, do you still remember how to mix a firepot?”

A weary smile crossed his old friend's face. “I've already found the Alchemy Hall,” he admitted. “I thought to make some up, just in case.”

“Do so. Take Nori and Ori with you. Our sneaky friend might have some other recipes to suggest, and his brother is quick and clever. Mix as many as you can, anything you think might be of use.” He met each of their gazes in turn, his own steady and sure. “We will not hide behind stone while others fight our battles. We will not leave our kin to fight alone.”

Balin nodded, tears in his faded blue eyes, but lingered just a moment, staring at his king, unwilling to ask what had brought about the change. Thorin felt shame fill his heart and reached out to clasp both brothers by the arm.

“Erebor reminded me of what is important,” he answered the unspoken question. “With that accursed stone outside, and my king around me, I can hear the voice of the Mountain again, and she sings to Durin's heir.”

“She always has, laddie,” Dwalin murmured. “You just weren't listening.”

* * *

 

Fíli woke slowly, dimly aware that the sun was on the rise. His sleep had been thin and troubled, despite the comforting presence of his One, haunted by images of loss and devastation, so returning to the world was something of a relief. He knew of the danger that waited, but for the moment, there was peace. Instead, he focused on the soothing sensation of gentle fingers carding through his thick hair, not wanting to move, not wanting the moment of quiet intimacy to end. He felt a smile spread across his face as Viska deftly wove the intricate braids – the short Durin braid in front of his ear, then the longer heir's braid, close to his scalp and tucked behind. Finally, carefully, the courting braid. When it was done, she paused, then he felt her warm breath on his ear.

“One of us has to move, if you want the other side done,” she commented, a smile in her voice. “You can stop faking. You're no better at it than your brother.”

The golden prince chuckled and cracked his eyes open just a slit, just enough to see a glimpse of her face in the dawn's light. “Not faking. Just enjoying the moment.” He left the rest unsaid, the dark thoughts swirling in the back of his mind – that this might be the last time he woke with her in his arms, the last time she touched his face so tenderly....

“Don't.” Her voice was firm, a tone of command that he had never heard from her. “Come back to me, Fíli. Come back to _now_. I'll not lose you before I lose you.”

Now his eyes opened completely, and he stared at her in consternation. She shook her head.

“It is written all over your face, _kurdê_. In your eyes. In this.” She held up the finger that she had traced across his cheek, and he realized that it was wet. He had not even realized that he wept. “We are safe. Kíli is safe. Even Thorin, and the Company, are safe – for now. We will do what we must to keep it that way, to hold the Mountain for our people, to protect the innocents of Laketown. If we fall, it will not be without a fight.” Her eyes softened and she smiled at him, a little of her old humor returning as she gestured to the rather bedraggled braids on the other side of his head. “Now, shall I finish?”  
  
Chastened and humbled by her courage, her sheer determination, he merely pressed a kiss to her fingertips and nodded. Shifting around so she could reach his other side, he reached out to place his hand on the boulder against which he had slept. Humming softly, he sank into the dreamy state that allowed him to speak to the Mountain – an exercise that became easier each time he tried. As her fingers worked through his golden locks, he lost himself in the endless Song, letting his mind wander within Erebor's vast, though simple, consciousness. There was something new, something almost familiar, but a greater disturbance drew his attention and the first curiosity slipped away and was gone. When he came back to himself, Viska was working quietly on the back of his head, gathering the thick mane.

“What word from the Mountain?” she asked, digging through her pocket for something. He took a moment to reply, blue eyes fixed on nothing as he gathered his thoughts.

“They come,” he finally answered, his voice solemn, but not grim. “North, and south, they come. They mean to catch us between, unaware, like animals in a trap.”

“Just as well we are not unaware and do not mean to accommodate them, then, is it not?” she retorted. She held out the silver clasp in her hand, the one that bore the sigil of Durin, the one that he had given her on the dock in Laketown. A promise writ in silver. “Hold this a moment, please?”

He took it, running his fingers idly over the intricate design, but did not hand it over when she reached for it.

“Fíli?”

“The leather thong is good enough for me,” he told her, his jaw set. “I would have you wear the clasp. It was a gift.”

“It was a token, an oath that we would meet again,” she told him gently, plucking it out of his hand. “It is the emblem of Durin's Line, of your blood. It is not mine to wear. Not yet.” She clipped it in place and went to work on the final braid, weaving it swiftly as he struggled to articulate what was in his heart.

“It could be.”

She sighed and tugged at the braid just slightly as she returned the last bead to its place. He turned to face her, meeting her serious gaze. After a long moment, she shook her head.

“No.”

His heart froze, but she reached out to press a hand to his jaw, green eyes tender and loving.

“Not yet. Not like this, _uhlathu kurd_ _ê._ We will follow the traditions of our people. When this is over – when Azog and Bolg are defeated, when Erebor is made safe. Then we will speak the words, before our kin, as is proper.”

Catching her hand, he pressed a kiss to the palm and offered her a small smile.

“Now you worry about traditions,” he teased, though he understood something of her thoughts. She grinned slightly, then tugged her hand free and got to her feet. He followed suit, only to have a cloth bundle shoved into his hands.

“A blanket. It was draped over us when I woke,” she explained. “Take it back to camp, and make sure your brother is awake.”

“Where do you go?” he asked curiously, tucking the blanket under his arm.

“I have an errand to run,” she replied. “I will meet you at the tent, soon.”

With that, she was gone. Fíli watched her go, trying to resolve the whirling storm of emotions in his gut. War was coming. Not a battle, like those they had faced during the quest, but a war – a massive army of Orcs against the might of the Woodland Realm, five hundred warriors of the Iron Hills, and the survivors of Laketown. A war that might end in disaster for the Dwarves, Men, and Elves. And his One, his beloved, would fight in it at his side. He could not decide if he was more proud or terrified. After a moment's consideration, he decided that it was probably an equal split.

But Viska would not be the only one he loved who was in danger, he remembered, glancing down at the blanket he held. He did not know that Kíli had brought it to them – the young archer had been sound asleep when they left him in the tent – but it would not surprise him. His brother often woke in the night, restless sleeper as he was, and accustomed to the watch shifts of the journey. It would be like him to bring it out to keep them warm, then return to his own bed. Tucking his fears firmly in the back of his mind, the Crown Prince of Erebor turned his steps toward the camp.

* * *

 

Thorin stood in the bay before the hidden door, looking much the same as he had on the day it had been opened. Gone were the royal robes, the heavy crown, the shining armor – he wore only the light gear in which he had traveled so far, through so many dangers. The other Dwarf lords had considered it a fool's quest, certain death for any who followed him. Yet here he stood, quest accomplished, Mountain reclaimed, dragon dead...and very little of it through any of his doing. He had led them, yes. His had been the hand that had opened the door by the last light of Durin's Day. But it Bilbo Baggins of the Shire who had entered the Mountain, going alone to the very heart of the dragon's lair. It was Bard of Laketown, with Triskel and Viska of Emyn Uial, who had slain Smaug. His kingdom was his, but through few actions of his own, and at what terrible cost?

A flurry of wings caught his attention and he turned to watch a large raven settled on the rock, just at head-height. The beady eyes studied him intently before it offered a quick dip of its sleek head. Ravens were proud birds, and the ravens of Erebor were prouder than most, but they had long served as friends to Durin's folk, and this one had proved no different. Thorin nodded respectfully to the bird that had greeted him when he had first slipped out of the Mountain, seeking a way to send word to Dáin of what had happened. Roäc was the leader of the returning ravens, son of the great bird Carc that Thorin and Balin had known as Dwarflings.

“I thank you for coming, Friend Roäc,” the Dwarf king murmured. The bird quorked, a hint of annoyance in its voice.

“The King Under the Mountain called, and the ravens of Erebor answer,” Roäc replied, studying him intently. “The Ironfoot is come, but you may not like what has happened, Thorin, son of Thráin. He does not march on the Elves.”

Thorin grimaced. “Good,” he replied shortly, a tiny smirk stealing across his face when the raven blinked. “Over the past days, you offered me much council, Roäc, and I wish to thank you for it. And to apologize for not heeding it. The only explanation that I can offer is that I was not myself. I spurned your cautions and ignored your warnings, and for that I am deeply sorry.” He offered a bow, not too low, but lower than the king of Erebor would normally make to any but another ruler. Roäc was still for a long moment, then the bird's head dipped once more.

“It is good to see you thus,” came the gravelly reply. “You know of the armies that march for the Mountain?”

“I do. Orcs, from Dol Guldur in the south, and Gundabad in the north. They think to crush us between them. I would prevent that.”

“The Ironfoot has made alliance with the Elf king and the Men of the Lake,” the raven observed. “My son's son followed the wizard when he rode to meet them, and he saw a golden-haired Dwarf speak to the Lord of the Iron Hills, offering fair words and news of events in the Mountain. Dáin offered him loyalty, until the Orcs be defeated.”

Thorin felt a smile bloom across his face – the first true smile in what seemed an age. “Fíli,” he breathed, pride rushing through him. “I thought it would have been his doing. He will be a fine king.”

Roäc bobbed his head, his next words low, almost to himself. “The Sun King, to bring light and life to the lands of Erebor.” At the Dwarf's stare, the old bird gave a sound that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “The blood of Durin does not have the only tie to the Mountain, son of Thráin,” he stated enigmatically. “I bring news from my sons and daughters, where they fly far and wide to scout the lands, oh king. The Great Eagles have left their eyrie in the Misty Mountains, and the Great Bear rides with them. They follow the Brown, and they are on their way to Erebor.”

Thorin stared at him, the words taking a moment to process. “The Eagles are coming? And Beorn? Radagast has summoned them to the aid of Erebor?”

It felt as though a great weight had lifted from his shoulders and heart. Alone, the Company would have stood no chance against Azog's host. Even the three armies currently outside of the Mountain were not enough to guarantee victory. But the Eagles, the shape-shifter, and a wizard? Two wizards, actually, for surely Gandalf remained in the camp at the Mountain's feet.

“You ease my heart, Roäc, as well as the burden I had come to place on you. I had thought to send you for aid, but it already comes, unlooked for. This leaves only a single boon that I would ask of you.”

The beady eye regarded him steadily and Roäc nodded. “You know that it will be done. We follow Her will.”

“Nonetheless, I would ask it, in all humility and acknowledgment of what has happened these past days,” Thorin countered. “Send the strongest of your flock to watch and protect them, to the best of their ability. Your ravens cannot fight, but they can warn, they can distract, and they can summon aid. Safeguard them all.”

“Your heirs.” There was a challenge in the raven's eye, and the Dwarf king wondered exactly how extensive the bond was between Mountain and birds.

“All three of them,” he replied. “He will be king, but he will be a shell without them. His brother, his One – together, they will restore our people and champion the Mountain. They will rule far better than I ever could.”

“You brought them back to Erebor,” Roäc replied, the rough voice almost gentle. “You achieved the impossible, Thorin, son of Thráin. Do not so easily discard what you have done.”

“I do not. I have led my people for so long – at my father's side during the Exile, then alone after his disappearance. I was what they needed then. I am, perhaps, what is needed now – but not for the future. I will stand by Fíli's side as long as I am able, but this will be his kingdom. In many ways, it is already.”

“It will be done, Thorin _Uzbad_ ,” Roäc intoned formally, bowing once more. “The flock will guard Erebor's king.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

Roäc took to the sky, but Thorin stood for a long moment, staring out over the landscape. The edges of the camp were just visible from the hidden bay, and he could see the distant movement as the Elves prepared for the coming battle. He had preparations of his own to make – the Orcs would arrive all too soon, and his Company chafed to join the defense of their home. They only awaited his word to bring down the barricade at the gate.

* * *

 

Bilbo had spent a largely sleepless night in the deeproom beneath Dale. The Lakemen were kind enough, welcoming him into their refuge and shooting him smiles of gratitude as he kept the little ones entertained, but they were mostly strangers. Tilda hovered at his side, and Sigrid was a frequent presence, but his heart was torn with worry for the Company, and he could not relax in the relative safety of the stone room. The morning found him restless and struggling with the implied promise that he had given Viska. He had never actually said that he would stay here throughout the battle, had he? No, he had merely agreed to stay the night, helping with the children. The Dwarrowlass had strongly hinted that he should stay until all danger was past, but no promise had been given.

Thus, none would be broken. He had only to make it to the stairs without catching her attention. The chestnut-haired lass had arrived only a few minutes ago, heading straight for Bard's family and speaking to them in a quiet voice. Glancing around to make sure that no one was watching, the Hobbit slipped the golden ring onto his finger and edged his way across the stone floor, hoping to escape without bumping into anyone in the crowded quarters. Viska was pressing a rolled page into little Tilda's hand, the girl staring at her with wide eyes.

“Thank you for saving it from the fires, but I would ask that you keep it for me a bit longer. I will return for it when the Orcs are gone.”

Sigrid put a hand on her sister's shoulder, young face grave, as Tilda spoke in a tiny voice.

“But what if you don't come back? People will die, Viska. What if you die?”

The young Dwarf smiled and gave the girl a quick hug. “Then give it to Fíli,” she replied. “And we both fall...take it to your da.” She glanced up at Sigrid, her eyes fierce. “No matter what happens, the Dwarves will be returning to the Mountain. Ask your father to see that it gets to the Lady Dís. She is Fíli's mother. If we fail...if we fall, she deserves to have this, to know that her son was happy.”

That answered the curious twitch in Bilbo's mind. The picture that Ori had drawn, of the prince and the lass in Beorn's orchard. He had no doubt that there were portraits aplenty in the scribe's notebook, sketches that would tell the full tale of the Company's journey, but it brought tears to his eyes to hear the earnest determination in Viska's voice. That, as much as any of the thoughts that had plagued him through the long night, Walnut snoring in his ear (no wonder the Dwarves liked the little dogs so much!), made up his mind. Taking a deep breath, he waited for a clear path to the stairs, then darted for the exit. A few hurried steps, and he was out in the fresh, chill air. Safety, such as it was, behind him, he made for the Elven camp, where he could lose himself in the bustling activity.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> uhlathu kurdê – hero of my heart


	34. Our Foes Shall Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yet again, apologies for the late update. Please remember, comments are always welcome, and I will always reply to them (eventually). I love to hear from you!!

Thorin stood in the entry hall and gazed around at his depleted Company, humbled and chastened by their fierce dedication. The past few days were a haze in his mind, but he remembered enough to know that he did not deserve their loyalty, or the compassion in their eyes. The grief in his heart was his own doing, and four of his companions were in danger because of his actions. Bilbo, who had been so unexpectedly fierce an ally. Viska, who had helped slay the dragon, only to lose the last of her kin. And his sister-sons, his heirs. Dís would kill him if they died this day, and by Mahal, he would let her.

The sound of boots on stone drew his attention and he glanced around as Balin, Dwalin, Ori, and Nori emerged from one of the many hallways, all but the white-haired advisor lugging a heavy crate filled with sand and, he hoped, a deadly surprise for the approaching Orcs. The wicked smile on Nori's face was expected – the matching one on Ori's was a bit of a surprise and it startled Thorin into an answering smirk. Balin cocked an eyebrow at him and nodded in confirmation. The king felt his smirk widen into a feral grin as he returned the nod. He took a deep breath and turned to address the Company, Dwarves he would forever trust at his back.

“I have no right to ask this of you,” he admitted quietly, studying each of their faces in turn. “My actions since we reached the Mountain have been..less than honorable. And yet you have all stood by me, save those that I drove reluctantly from my side with cruel words and crueler blows.” He paused, reading the determination in each pair of eyes, from quiet Bombur to protective Dori, and felt his heart swell. Never had any king been so blessed in his allies. “No matter your blood, you are all my brothers,” he declared. “Erebor is ours once more, beyond all hope and in spite of all conventional wisdom. But with Smaug defeated, a new threat rises and reaches for our home, threatening our allies and kin. Azog leads a great army from the south, from the Enemy's ancient fortress. His spawn Bolg leads another from the north, from the foul keep of Gundabad.” He paused, sighing as a thousand questions and half-formed scenarios ran through his mind. “I am certain that Gandalf would know what ultimate price they seek, and he would perhaps have told me, if recent events had gone differently. For now, however, the little that I do know is enough. Orcs are the enemy of all of the Free Peoples, and Azog particularly is the enemy of me and mine. Erebor has not been won only to fall to such ilk, and Durin's folk will not stand by as blood is shed to defend our Mountain.”

He started slightly as a small cheer broke from his companions, fierce joy lighting their faces as weapons were hefted. Dwalin took a step forward, offering a proud nod as he swept his arm back to indicate the entirety of the Company.

“We are with you, Thorin,” the big warrior declared firmly. “We are few, but fierce, and we will fight to the last Dwarf.”

There was a flash of pain in his heart, an echo of memory, similar words spoken a lifetime ago by a bright-eyed Fíli, but Thorin seized the pain and used it to stoke his determination.

“We are few indeed, my friend, and I fear that a dozen Dwarves more on the battlefield will make little difference – before the proper moment. Better to put each of you where you will do the most good.” He glanced at Balin, who looked rather smug by the sand-filled crates. “How many, cousin?”

“Twenty-five to a crate,” the elder Dwarf replied with a smile. “Firepots, mostly, but with a little extra, courtesy of young Ori. Five of each, though, are the most delicate pots we could find, filled with a rather nasty mixture of Nori's. Where would you have them, my king?”

Thorin studied his companions for a long moment. “On the ledge outside of the hidden door,” he decided. “Bolg's army will pass within good range. Nori, Ori, Dori, Bifur – do as much damage as you can. When you run out, or if they find you, come back in and seal the door behind you, then return to the gate.” Those he had named nodded, the young scribe grabbing a torch to light their way as the rest each hoisted a heavy crate and started for the first flight of stairs. The king turned to the others. “Bombur, get to the Horn of Thráin,” he ordered, referring to the massive stone instrument built into the side of Erebor by the first King Under the Mountain. “Wait for my signal to sound the charge. Bofur!” He turned to the miner as the rotund cook hurried off, smiling slightly as Bofur offered him a cheeky salute and shouldered his mattock. “The base of the barricade. You'll bring it down on my order. Óin, Glóin – the catapult station to the right of the gate is still intact. The weapon itself will be useless, but see if you can do any damage with the ammunition that might be left.” As the Company scattered, he turned to Balin and Dwalin, his oldest friends, his most loyal allies. “With me, above the gate,” he told them quietly. “Dwalin, you will be my eyes, Balin my voice with the ravens. We will help send these scum to the Void that consumed their master.”

 * * *

Kíli was nearly ready when Fíli arrived at the tent, the dark eyes lighting when the elder prince slipped through the flap.

“Sleep well, _nadad_?” he teased gently, catching the blanket as it was tossed to him and setting it aside. Fíli shook his head with a wry grin. Kíli would always be Kíli. When he wasn't, then was the time to worry.

“Well enough,” he agreed, pulling his brother in for a gentle headbutt. “Thank you for the blanket. Do you feel better?”

A hint of shadow darted through the archer's eyes, but he nodded firmly. “I am sorry about last night, I was - “

“You were exhausted, and heartsick,” Fíli cut him off, clasping his shoulders firmly. “By Mahal, I understand. It nearly killed me to leave Erebor, no matter Thorin's behavior toward me, to my One. And to leave you behind? My soul was torn, _nadadith_. It is still damaged, but it begins to heal. We are stronger now, the both of us.”

“Stronger together than apart,” Kíli agreed softly, pulling away finally. A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. “I almost forgot – that fire-haired Elf lass brought a bundle by a little while ago. I think you'll be pleased.”

Pleased he was. Tauriel had returned their weapons, the ones that had been taken from them in Mirkwood during their capture. He had missed the sword at Kíli's hip when he first entered, but he smiled broadly when he unwrapped the bundle and found his own unique scabbard, both falchions firmly in place. Most of his knives where there, too, but there was nothing for Viska.

“She dropped her sword during the fight, remember?” his brother commented. “Bilbo told us that he had seen it, but he was too busy following the spiders to retrieve it. My bow is gone, too, but I brought out the one I found in the armory, along with two quivers of arrows.”

The golden prince nodded. “She still has the blade from Erebor,” he replied, shrugging out of his coat to pull the chainmail vest over his head. Once it was settled, he put the coat back on and began stowing his blades carefully, Kíli handing them to him each in turn. The double scabbard came last, and he sighed with relief as it settled into place, an old friend returned.

“Where is Viska?” the raven-haired prince asked curiously.

“Staying in Dale, I would hope.”

Both young Dwarves spun at the new voice, though Kíli was the only one who reached for his blade. Fíli had recognized it immediately. Dáin stood in the door, beard bristling, great red war hammer strapped to his back. Kíli stared for a moment, then glanced at his brother. The lord of the Iron Hills simply strode forward and pulled the archer into a hug.

“Kíli, son of Dís. It is good to meet you, lad. Your brother worried for you. How fares y'r uncle?”

The younger prince's face cleared but he did not smile, for he had no good news regarding Thorin. “When I left, he was lost in his own dark thoughts,” he admitted. “But I believe Balin and the others had a plan. Perhaps they will rouse him where I could not.”

“Perhaps,” Dáin agreed. “There are few I would set against Fundin's son in a battle of words or wit. If anyone can think of a way to break the Stone's sway, it will be him.” He regarded Kíli seriously for a long moment. “I'll tell ye what I told y'r brother,” he added finally. “Thorin is strong, of will, of heart, and of mind. If any son of Durin can be brought back from this darkness, it'll be y'r uncle.”

Kíli nodded, unspeaking, and Dáin turned to Fíli. “Now, this lass of yours – she'll be staying somewhere safe, right laddie? The deeprooms in Dale that Gandalf mentioned?”

Fíli sighed and shook his head. “She will be here soon.”

“You'll not send her to safety?” Dáin asked incredulously. Fíli's eyes flared blue fire as he stared at his cousin.

“You think I don't want to?” he demanded. “I am terrified for her, but I will not order her to leave my side. Not after everything.”

“But...surely she'll understand that you only want to keep her safe-” Kíli tried to interject, only to wilt under his brother's incredulous gaze. “No, you are right. She will stay, no matter the danger,” he admitted, glancing at Dáin. “She disguised herself as a lad to join the Company,” he explained briefly. “She is a fighter, and a survivor. She won't leave his side.”

Dáin stared at them for a long moment, then nodded, a hint of admiration in his eyes. “Then keep her there and keep her safe,” he replied quietly.

“And she will do the same for him,” another voice spoke up. Fíli smiled as Viska stepped into the tent, head up and green eyes flashing.

“My lady Viska, this is Dáin, Lord of the Iron Hills, my cousin,” he introduced them smoothly. “Dáin, Viska, daughter of Kulvik of Emyn Uial. My lady.”

The fierce warrior offered her a hand-on-heart bow, his sharp gaze going immediately to the bandaged cut on her face and the bruise that surrounded it. Raising an eyebrow at Fíli, he murmured half under his breath.

“'Blows were struck'?” he quoted the Crown Prince's explanation of the evening before. “Thorin did that? He struck your One and yet lives? You have a will of iron, lad.”

“Or merely an understanding heart, my lord,” Viska countered, her face full of sorrow.

“True enough,” Dáin agreed heavily. “I remember Thrór's madness, and if Thorin suffers the same....” He trailed off, his thoughts clearly dark, and was silent for a moment before his eyes returned to meet her gaze. “Kulvik's daughter, then?” he asked, a small smile teasing his lips. “I knew Kulvik slightly. He was an honorable Dwarf, and a good friend to Thorin. Stood with Fundin and young Frerin at Azanulbizar, if I remember correctly. Ah, that was a dark day. Never thought to see the like again.”

“That is why we must finish this, today,” Fíli told him, turning aside to help Viska shrug into the her mail coat. “We will make sure that Azog is dead, and his foul spawn Bolg. Whatever alliance they have with the dark power in Dol Guldur, it ends today. We have an army of Men, Dwarves, and Elves, and we have the Mountain to aid us.”

“Not to mention a wizard,” Kíli spoke up, fire in his eyes. “We are Durin's folk!”

“Aye, laddie, that we are. And Durin's folk are fierce to the last.”

As if in answer to Dáin's statement, the clear note of an Elven horn rang through the air. Viska paused in the act of slipping her spare knives into the hidden sheaths in her coat. Kíli's eyes widened, the young archer's head coming up like a deer scenting a predator, but a moment later, his jaw was set and a fierce light was in his eyes as he grabbed his bow. Dáin nodded approvingly and met Fíli's steady gaze.

“You'll be on Ravenhill?” he asked quietly. Fíli nodded, handing the sheathed sword to Viska and watching the Dwarrowmaid strap it into place on her back.

“Where I can both see the field and speak to the Mountain,” the prince replied.

“And where you can be seen, with that golden hair of yours,” the Lord of the Iron Hills retorted gruffly. “I'll send a couple of my best to stand with ye, my prince.”

He was gone a moment later, leaving the three young Dwarves alone. Fíli reached out blindly, pulling his brother and his One into a tight embrace, pressing their foreheads together as he spoke to them without words, willing them to be safe in the coming hours. He could feel Kíli's grip on his collar, Viska's fingers wound into the hair at the back of his neck. They broke apart at the next call of the horn, eyes bright, and then they were out of the tent, the thin winter sunlight warm on their heads as they jogged through the encampment, making for Ravenhill.

 * * *

Someone had once told Nori that the quietest folk were the ones to watch the closest, a warning that he had shrugged off with a grin and a chuckle. Now, he was wondering if he should have given more credence to it, for he was seeing a side of his scholarly younger brother that he had never imagined. Ori was downright frightening.

It had started when Balin had summoned them to accompany him to the Alchemy Halls, wanting their aid in mixing as many firepots as possible before the arrival of the enemy armies. Ori had joined in enthusiastically, eager to learn and help, which was typical Ori. Once the base mixture was complete, however, and they moved on to filling the thin ceramic pots, the quiet little artist had frowned.

“Wouldn't they do more damage if we added broken glass?” he had mused, the thin line between his brows a sign that he was deep in thought. “Or even stone shards. Then, when the pot explodes-”

“-they'll tear through flesh and muscle!” Balin had interrupted, a strange, fierce light in his pale blue eyes. “Brilliant, Ori! Quickly, gather up whatever you can find while we mix this paste of Nori's.”

The thief's own contribution to their weaponry had been a thinned out version of an acidic paste that he had used on more than one occasion to gain access to areas that were secured against more conventional means of egress. At full strength, it could eat through stone, though it would take a while. Even the watered-down version, however, would consume flesh. He had never used it in such a way before, and he hoped that he never would again. Only the knowledge of what they faced had persuaded him to produce the sealed vials of the main ingredients from their hiding places (Ori had blinked in surprise, prompting a shrug from the elder brother and a muttered “who searches through a Dwarf's hair?” as he slipped them from concealment beneath two of the three crests of his hair). By the time he and Balin had mixed them with water and filled fifteen of the thinnest of the pots, Ori had returned with a collection of broken glass, ceramic and stone. Working quickly, the three Dwarves had packed the sharp debris in with the normal mixture of the firepots, adding a short fuse to each before packing them in sand-filled trays and stacking the trays in the crates. Dwalin had joined them as they finished the last tray, bringing word that Thorin had returned and was waiting in the entry hall, before the Great Gate.

Now, as he stood once more on the grassy ledge outside of the hidden door, Nori watched his brother and wondered when quiet little Ori had become so fierce. It was a small comfort that Dori also watched their younger brother askance as the scholar piled several of the firepots within easy reach, one already in hand as they watched the first ranks of Orcs begin to pour around the side of the Mountain. The first to fly came from his hand, and many of those that followed found strategic targets due to his keen eyesight and precise aim. Nori flicked a glance at Bifur, who met his eyes steadily before shrugging.

“ _Damum Durinul_ ,” the enigmatic warrior stated quietly, flashing a quick grin before he flung the thin ceramic pot he held.

_Damum Durinul._ The Blood of Durin. And so they were, though of an illegitimate line, and far removed from the ruling family. The Mountain had welcomed them, and the fire of Durin's heirs sang in their blood. Nori realized that he wore a wicked smirk, and that it was mirrored on the faces of both his brothers. Side by side, all differences forgotten, the sons of Nif hurled death down on the Orcs of Gundabad. After the first few, Bifur left them to it, making it his part instead to watch the enemy below. He was the one who saw when the Orcs realized where they were, and he was the one to tap Dori's arm, bringing the silver-haired leather-worker out of his concentration to point out the approaching danger. Ori flung the last of the firepots as the others hurried into the small tunnel, then followed them as Dori began to swing the heavy stone into place.

By the time the Orcs reached the ledge, there was nothing to be seen but a scattering of sand, three empty crates, and a featureless wall, for doors of Dwarven craft are made to be invisible when closed.

 * * *

The firepots had done their work, and done it well. Thorin, deep in communion with the Mountain, saw the damage wrought by the deadly missiles – flesh torn, bones shattered, blood spreading across the cold ground beneath the dead and maimed. Nori has focused on the Trolls that march with the army, sending them mad with pain as the acidic paste eats through their thick hides. They have slain nearly as many of their own as the firepots, trampling their companions in vain attempts to escape the agony. The army from Gundabad was weakened, but still dangerous, and the pale Orc at its head was furious and frantic. As Bolg rallied his troops and led them at a rush around the final arm of the Mountain, the king's attention was caught by something in the stone itself. She whispered to him of the weakness there, where a century of ice and water had caused cracks to form and spread. A fierce grin spread across his face and he pulled back just enough to focus on his companions.

“Dwalin, rally the Company. Balin, tell Bofur to drop the right side of the barricade on my signal.”

“What signal?”

Thorin laughed.

“I promise, it will be impossible to miss.”

 * * *

Fíli and Kíli stood halfway up Ravenhill, watching the approach of Azog's army. Kíli stood to his brother's left, an arrow already nocked. To Fíli's right, Viska had her sword drawn, and the Crown Prince had both falchions in hand. The dark-haired prince had been surprised when they were joined by the flame-haired Elf maiden, but Viska had simply smiled and welcomed her. The half-dozen of Dáin's soldiers that had joined them had merely nodded and set up a protective line in front of Durin's heirs.

The first explosion caught them by surprise and Kíli whipped around to face north, drawing back the string on his bow as he moved. The second confused him, for there was nothing to see, and he turned to his brother. Fíli had slipped one of his blades back into its sheath and already had his hand to the stone of the Mountain, eyes closed as he reached through Erebor's consciousness. When his eyes opened again, they flared with a dangerous light.

“Dori and his brothers, with Bifur, are atop the hidden ledge,” he announced loudly, offering this welcome news to any of their allies within earshot. “Hurling firepots down on the northern army.”

Kíli stared at him, then whooped in delight, a broad grin spreading across his face as Viska chuckled.

“Thorin is himself,” the golden prince continued, lowering his voice to a quiet murmur. “I can feel his presence through the Mountain. He speaks with her. The Company prepares to join the battle.” His eyes met Viska's and Kíli felt his heart clench at the love that shone from both of their faces. He turned away, unwilling to intrude, but he could not close his ears.

“Do not take this wrong, but...I wish that you were not here, _amrâlimê_.”

“I know, but I am glad that I am, _kurdê_.”

And then the battle was upon them.

 * * *

_Across the battlefield, Azog hears the explosions, the sound of the rockslide as part of the Mountain gives way and buries a portion of the army from Gundabad. His grimace is one of fury, for soldiers lost mean fewer numbers in their battle. He cares little for Bolg, beyond determination that his offspring will not shame him. Orcs do not share this weakness, this....sentimentality....for others of the same blood, but they know how to exploit it, oh yes. He does not need to seek Oakenshield – he needs only to find those the Dwarf lord values._

_And there they are, on the lower slopes of Ravenhill, fighting with a small detachment of soldiers from the Iron Hills (and_ that _was a nasty surprise). The Dwarves who came to Oakenshield's defense on the cliffs of the Misty Mountains, the ones he protected outside of the home of the Great Beast. Sun-gold and raven-dark, they fight side by side as swords flash and they scream defiance at their enemies. Another fights with them, unfamiliar and yet familiar as the weak winter sun glints off of silver beads in an intricate braid, and the pale Orc abruptly recognizes another irritant of the past several months. Here is one of the young ones that has stood by the heirs since that first encounter, and it is clear from the way the three of them move and interact that this one is also close and dear. So then, it will be three...three pieces of bait...three morsels of tender flesh to tear and mangle...he needs only to reach them. He will not need to search out Oakenshield. Once he has them, Oakenshield will come to him._

 * * *

Atop Ravenhill, unnoticed in the growing confusion below, Erebor's fiercest, strongest ravens gathered, beady eyes watching for any threat to the three young Dwarves that were their charges.


	35. We'll Fight As Long As We Live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Apology:  
>  Oh my goodness...I am so very sorry. I knew I hadn't posted in a while, but I didn't realize that it had been THAT long!!! Real life kind of ran away with me, and I apologize from the depths of my heart. My job responsibilities changed, and I lost the occasional downtime that I had to jot my notes down, and my bus commute was insane (2 hours each way, and I get nauseous if I try to read or write in a moving vehicle), so I was away from home about 14 hours a day during the week, with weekends dedicated to errands, and I just didn't have the energy to invest in my writing. Especially with the battle looming. But I never intended to just stop!  
>  However, I now work from home (woohoo!!!), so I have tons more time, both to write and to spend with my hubby and our furchildren, so I am BACK! I sincerely hope that I haven't lost too many interested readers, but I understand anyone who might have given up on me.  
> ~QW
> 
> Author's Note: I have been asked about my source for the Khuzdul names for the Valar, which made me realize that I had not made nearly the acknowledgments that I should have made. All of my Khuzdul, including the names of the Valar, come from The Dwarrow Scholar's AMAZING work, although any syntax/grammar errors are mine.  
>  This chapter is a bit short – there is a lot happening in it, and I am getting back into my writing groove, so I thought I shouldn't try to push it. As ever, anything that belongs to anyone else is not mine – I'm just borrowing to have fun with the world! Reviews/comments/critiques are welcome!!

_History will know it as The Battle of the Five Armies, a naming both perfectly apt and woefully inadequate to convey a true sense of its magnitude and consequence. As the years pass, tales will be told and songs will be sung – and some will even contain more than a grain of truth._

_The Elves are icy precision, grace in every movement. Their skills are those honed over over centuries, no movement wasted. Every motion flows seamlessly into the next, a deadly dance with blade, bow, or knives. Thranduil is a storm of death atop his great elk, the sneering courtier replaced by the warrior king who took up his fallen father's banner against the great wyrms of the North. He is relentless and awe-inspiring, and where he leads, his folk follow and Orcs die by the dozens. But so do Elves, pierced and hewn by cruel blades, and his crystalline blue eyes dim a little more with every lost immortal life._

_The Men are grim anxiety, fighting a foe they never would have imagined. They are not warriors, these Men of the Lake, but fishermen, crafters, and merchants. Those that wield actual weapons from Dale's ancient stores do so awkwardly. They reek of desperation, but they stand, and they fight, for of all the combatants, they have the most to lose. Their families are nearby and vulnerable, and they will fight to the last breath to protect their own. Bard is their reluctant leader, discomfited by the fact that they look to him and see the descendent of Girion, the Dragonslayer. He is both of those things, but above all, he is a father, and it is in this that he finds his strength. He will lead them for little Tilda, with her sweet smile and love of that silly pup. For Sigrid, with her mother's strength, who slew an Orc to safeguard her siblings. For Bain, all coltish limbs and bravado, who even now waits with weapon in hand in case the deeproom is breached. For them, he will lead the Lakemen against a cruel and terrible foe, and in doing so, cement their loyalty and love without even realizing how it happened._

_The Dwarves are tireless determination, their smaller size more than balanced by the ferocity with which they fight. With this battle, they have been given the chance to right two wrongs done their race. They will defend Erebor, last of the great Dwarf Kingdoms, as they could not against the dragon. And in doing so, they will finally be avenged on Azog the Defiler for the slaughter at Azanulbizar. Dáin's mighty war hammer is in constant motion as he plows through the Orc ranks on his great boar. He has his own score to settle with Azog, the sight of his father's lifeless eyes burned into his mind. For Náin, for Thrór, for Thráin, for young Frerin...for Thorin, his cousin and king, whom he has failed once already by not supporting this quest to retake the Mountain._

_The battle will end, and fade into history. Time will pass, as She is wont to do, and those who survive will look back and remember, through a haze of memory, the confrontation before the Gates of Erebor, when Elves, Men, and Dwarves (and one lone Hobbit) fought to stem the rising tide of darkness. But this is here, and real, and NOW, and the ending of the tale is yet to be written...who will live, and who will die, not yet decided._

* * *

 

Bilbo Baggins stared in horror at the sight before him. After the perils of the quest, he had thought himself prepared for what he would find on the battlefield. After all, he had faced Trolls, Goblins, and Orcs already – the battle before Erebor would simply be the confrontation before Beorn's writ large. And with allies. The Lord of the Iron Hills led five hundred soldiers, while the Lakemen fielded perhaps two hundred untrained fishermen and merchants. He had not counted the Elves, but their force had looked larger than that of the Dwarves even before their king had sent for reinforcements. Together, they might not have rivaled the legendary Last Alliance of the Second Age, but he had thought them magnificent, unbreakable. Surely Azog's rabble would turn tail and run when confronted with such a foe!

Never in all his life had he been more wrong. He stood near Gandalf – the wizard had not been best pleased to find the burglar at his heels, but it had been too late to send him elsewhere, and so a sigh and a muttered blessing had been his only comment – and watched the enemy approach, his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his toes. Rank upon rank of massive Orcs, crudely armed and armored, hate and bloodlust in their faces. There were Warg-riders, their beasts snarling and slavering with anticipation, and Trolls of a different breed than those outside of Rivendell, which did not turn to stone beneath the weak winter sun. Goblins, too, ran shrieking alongside the massive army. It was terrifying.

And then the forces met, with a crash that shook the very ground beneath his feet, and Sting was in his hand before he even knew he was reaching for the blade. The enemy was still distant, but he shifted his grip slightly, as Kíli had taught him so long ago, and gave mental thanks to his young friends for insisting that he accept some basic instruction with the Elven blade. He was no warrior, but months of association with a Company of headstrong Dwarves had infected him with some of their stubborn determination.

The series of explosions had him staring at Gandalf in confusion as a smile crept across the weathered face.

“That will be our friends in the Mountain, doing what they can to slow the army from Gundabad,” the wizard explained. His eyes closed, and he heaved a great sigh of relief as Bilbo realized what he meant.

“Thorin?”

“Is himself once more,” came the confirmation. Those silvery blue eyes opened once more and the tall Istari pointed toward the Gate of Erebor. “See? Beside the Gate?”

Squinting, the Hobbit could barely make out two figures. They appeared to have cannibalized the ancient catapult and were hurling small projectiles out toward the front ranks of the approaching army.

“Is that...Óin, and Glóin?” he asked, disbelieving. Gandalf smiled, but did not speak, watching as the distant Dwarves suddenly disappeared from the ledge, hurrying back inside. Bilbo was opening his mouth to ask what was happening when the very ground beneath them lurched. A murmur of confusion went through the squad of Elven archers nearby, but then another rumble from the front of the Gate seized their attention and held it as a section of the barricade crumbled. At the same time the cry of a massive battle horn rang out, echoing within the stone spurs of the Mountain. A small contingent of Dáin's army, cut off from their allies by a fierce group of Orcs, suddenly found themselves reinforced by a band of fresh, furious fighters. A moment later, the Orcs slain, the Iron Hills Dwarves rejoined their fellows and a cry went up in Khuzdul and Common.

“The king! The king is come! Rally to the king!! Erebor stands!”

“Thorin! Gandalf, it's Thorin!”

“The king rides forth,” the wizard murmured, half to himself. “Dáin and his warriors rally to the king.”

Bilbo's laugh was bordering on hysteria, but it cut off abruptly as he caught sight of a huge pale figure climbing the lower slopes of Ravenhill.

“Is that Azog?” he asked slowly. “Why would he be climbing up there?” His thoughts were sluggish and confused. Thorin had just revealed himself at the Gate. Why would the pale Orc be moving in the other direction. Gandalf glanced over quickly, his eyes narrowing before they widened in realization.

“Not Azog,” he corrected grimly, hand tightening on his staff. “Bolg, his spawn. It seems he survived the attacks on the Northern army.”

“But where is he going?” Even as he asked, the burglar caught sight of a familiar golden head halfway up the hill and his heart lurched. “Fíli. Kíli.”

“Thorin's heirs,” the wizard agreed heavily. “Sons of Durin.”

* * *

 

It would, perhaps, have been wiser to creep quietly from the Mountain, joining their kin without alerting the enemy to their arrival. But that was not the Dwarven way, not when the king strode forth to lead his people against their hated enemy. The twin rumbles of rockfall and barricade had disoriented the Orcs and their allies, and the great Horn of Thráin had announced his coming to friend and foe alike. No, the element of surprise was long since lost, and so Thorin chose to lead his Company out of the Gate at a charge, reinforcing a group of Iron Hills warriors who had gotten cut off from the rest of Dáin's forces. No words were needed – the grizzled veteran leading the group simply offered a nod of thanks before turning to his soldiers and leading the cry as they moved back toward the armies.

“The king! The king is come! Rally to the king!! Erebor stands!”

Thorin followed them, flanked by Dwalin and Balin, the others close behind, roaring with rage, whooping with fierce excitement, or simply moving with silent, deadly intent, each according to his temperament. It seemed only moments before a familiar red-haired Dwarf came in view, his great red warhammer covered in black Orc blood. The great boar was gone and the Lord of the Iron Hills stood side by side with his infantry.

“Good to see ye, cousin!” Dáin bellowed, dispatching an overly ambitious Goblin with a vicious swipe. “Glad ye could join us!” There was no rancor in his voice, but the uncrowned king felt his conscience twinge with guilt. Apologies, however, could wait. Instead, he clapped his cousin on the shoulder and offered him a tight smile.

“Couldn't let you have all of the fun, cousin,” he replied. He sobered as the warriors moved around them, isolating the two leaders for a few brief moments of peace. “Dáin, my sister-sons....” he trailed off, unsure how to finish, wondering how much his cousin knew of what had happened within the Mountain. The affable expression hardened slightly, and a glint in the hazel eyes told him that the answer was “enough.” A reply came quickly, though, and the tone of voice was almost gentle.

“Ay, I saw them. Brave lads, and dangerous.” Dáin snorted. “Talked me into fighting WITH that arrogant leafy bastard Thranduil, as ye can see, which testifies to young Fíli's leadership ability.” The great bearded warrior pointed across the battlefield, toward the old watch tower. “They're on Ravenhill,” he told the concerned king. “Both lads, and the lass your eldest is courting. Refused to be parted from him, she did. They tell me she's a fierce little thing, and she's faced her share of trials already.”

There it was – a thread of anger through his cousin's voice, and one that was not half what he deserved. Thorin sighed and nodded, meeting Dáin's gaze steadily. “They are more than I deserve, all three,” he acknowledged with rare humility. “And I owe them all a great debt.” With that, he straightened and turned his attention back to the battle raging beyond the wall of Dwarven warriors. “And I intend to begin paying it here and now,” he snarled, his rage at the Orcs rising up once more. “Shall we find Azog, cousin?”

Dáin's reply was a roar that parted the soldiers before them like a blade through flesh, and he hefted his warhammer as they charged together back into the confusion of the battle.

* * *

 

Orcs and Goblins were everywhere. Kíli was only thankful that most of the Wargs were concentrating Dain's ram riders. His world had narrowed to the small patch of ground that he held with his brother and his soon-to-be sister. Dáin's half-dozen warriors were nearby, and the tall Elf Captain danced with deadly grace a few steps away, but he had little attention to spare for them. As a Dwarf, and as a Son of Durin, he was aware of their presence, of their every move. As a brother, and as part of the fighting unit of Fíli-and-Kíli, he was most closely attuned to the golden swordsman to his right, and the chestnut-haired lass just beyond. Their cohesion was nearly flawless, Viska fitting herself neatly into the rhythm that the brothers had perfected over long years of training together.

The fire-haired Elf saw him first, dispatching a snarling Orc as she turned to catch the archer's attention, pointing off to the side with one long hunting knife.

“Bolg!”

Kíli cut the legs out from under the Orc in front of him and left it for his brother to finish off as he turned his sharp gaze in the direction the Captain had indicated. The younger Orc was even taller than his sire, though more wiry, and he was easy to spot as he made his way up the far slopes of Ravenhill, making directly for them. The raven-haired Dwarf kept his eyes on the approaching threat even as he hissed a warning to his brother.

“Fi!”

“I see him,” the elder prince replied grimly.

“Du bekar!”

Their honor guard of Iron Hills warriors had also seen the Orc, and they closed ranks in front of the princes, their scarred leader casting them a stern look over his shoulder as he growled at them.

“Lord Dáin sent us to stand with you, and stand we shall!”

* * *

 

Bilbo was alone on the battlefield, the golden ring hiding him from the eyes of the combatants as he wove his way toward Ravenhill. Gandalf had forbidden him to go, pointing out that Bolg would reach the young Dwarves long before he could. Oh, and dwelling heavily on the fact that he was a single Hobbit, who didn't stand a chance against the host of Orcs, Goblins, Wargs, and Trolls between him and his goal. The burglar had simply smiled at his old friend and shaken his head.

“I wasn't asking, Gandalf. They might not even be out here if not for me. I must help them, if I can.”

The wizard might have said more, but an Orc had lunged through the gathered Elven warriors and he had turned to face it, sword in hand. As soon as his back was turned, Bilbo had slipped the ring onto his finger and slipped away.

The ring's magic kept him from the eyes of the enemy, but it did nothing to protect him from being stepped on, knocked aside, or accidentally stabbed, so he kept his head low and moved as quickly and quietly as he could (which, as Gandalf had told the Dwarves long ago in Bag End, was almost a kind of magic itself). He did his best not to look at the bodies that he passed, praying that none of them belonged to anyone that he knew. He caught a distant war cry that sounded like Dwalin, and the Elven king's elk thundered past at one point, making him dodge quickly out of the way before he could be trampled, but once he reached the foot of Ravenhill, all of his attention was focused on the telltale golden hair halfway up the slope. Fíli was back to back with his brother and Viska, the three moving as a single unit as they covered one another. Bolg had not yet reached them, held back by two fierce, unfamiliar Dwarf warriors and a tall she-Elf with hair like fire. Even as the Hobbit watched, one of the Dwarves fell, joining several other unmoving figures on the ground near the Orc's feet, and the Elf took a terrible blow to the head, crumpling without a sound. Viska cried out in fury, and Bilbo was moving again, creeping up the hillside toward his friends.

* * *

 

“We have to get to Fíli and Kíli!” Thorin's order brooked not argument, and he could tell that Dwalin would not have offered one. The big warrior simply glanced at his brother and nodded, then turned to his king.

“You said they were on Ravenhill before,” he replied, cleaning his blade on a fallen Orc's tattered clothing. “Are they still? I canna see from here.”

Thorin reached out until his hand met stone, and for a bare moment, a blinding second, he was seeing with other eyes, hearing with other ears – the connection forged through the Mountain on a bolt of desperate fear

 

_He is on one knee, hand braced on stone as he struggles to rise. He would already be dead, felled by a blow from the pale Orc's sword, but for the intervention of his brother. Kíli lives, but he cannot see him, for his eyes are fixed on the sight before him,_

_Viska struggles in the beast's grip, held tight by the throat as she tries to reach one of her hidden knives. The Orc's eyes meet his and he realizes that the bastard knows. He knows what she is to the prince, and he is enjoying himself, restraining her effortlessly with one massive hand as he raises his wicked blade with the other. A roar of defiance breaks from Fíli's chest and he surges to his feet, losing contact with the skin of the Mountain..._

 

Thorin gasped as the connection was broken, the scene burned into his mind's eye. Then he was moving, barely hearing Dwalin's shout of surprise behind him.

“Ravenhill! They're on the slopes of Ravenhill! With Bolg!”

* * *

 

It only took a moment. A second's distraction – a Goblin dropping from a ledge above – and everything changed. The Goblin was dead in the space of a heartbeat, run through with a falchion, the prince's blood thundering in his ears. He took his eyes off of Bolg for that one breath, and the massive Gundabad Orc seized his chance. Taller than a Man, the great beast had a long reach, and he was on Fíli before the Dwarf could turn.

Or he would have been, had Kíli not charged in with a yell, sword flashing in the gloomy winter sunlight. Bolg snarled and turned toward the dark-haired archer, his hand clenching into a powerful fist the size of Kíli's head. It met the young Dwarf's face and the golden-haired swordsman heard his brother's nose break. Kíli dropped, the sword falling from nerveless fingers, dark eyes wide and stunned. Fíli's heart froze as the Orc raised his jagged scimitar, a sneer on the disfigured face.

“NO!”

Fíli was moving, but Viska was faster. She was just suddenly there, standing in front of his defenseless brother as Kíli scrambled for his weapon. Her eyes sparked with fury and she hacked at Bolg's sword arm, slicing deep into the flesh and drawing black blood. The Orc howled and yanked his arm away, sending both flying as he lashed out with his other hand and caught her by the neck. When he straightened to his full height, she hung suspended, booted feet kicking furiously, unable to reach him.

A red haze washed across the elder prince's sight and he attacked heedlessly, his mind empty save for the knowledge that his One, his beloved, was dying in front of him, and he must not allow it to happen. A careless swipe of Bolg's bloodied arm sent him staggering backward, balance lost as he fell heavily to one knee, vaguely aware that his head was ringing and he had dropped one of his swords. He shook his head, trying to clear his blurry vision, and braced himself with one hand on a stone outcropping, all of his attention concentrated on the scene before him.

Bolg ignored him, staring instead at his captive for a long moment. Then, clawed fingers tightened, and trickles of red flowed down to soak her collar. Fíli knew he was bellowing, could feel it shredding his throat, but the world seemed to have gone quiet. Bolg turned to grin at him, the expression blood-curdling on the Orc's twisted features, and the muscles in the massive forearm rippled as he began to bear down. Fíli lunged to his feet.

The air around them erupted in furious screeching as a flock of ravens descended, beaks and claws ripping at the pale Orc's eyes and face. The birds were enraged, a thick black cloud around his enemy's head, and then they were gone. Fíli blinked as an expression of almost comical surprise crossed the beast's horrific visage, now torn and bloodied. Bolg stared down at himself, drawing the prince's attention to the deep gash that had suddenly appeared in the Orc's side. They both stared, not even noticing when Viska abandoned her grip on Bolg's wrist to pull a knife from her sleeve. Her subtle, desperate movement caught the young Dwarf's eye and he glanced up just as she buried her blade as close to the elbow as she could, using both hands to twist it cruelly, severing muscle and sinew until his grip loosened and she tumbled to the stone. Bolg roared with rage and reached for her with the other hand, only to find two blades waiting for him. Kíli's longsword sank into his side, sending the Orc staggering to one knee. A moment later, Fíli's falchion sliced cleanly across the pale throat, nearly severing the spinal column. Black blood poured forth as Bolg reached up to staunch his wound, and the fell light was fading from his eyes even as he crumpled to the stone.


End file.
